


What You're Signing On For

by abrighteryellow



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Adopted Harry Styles, Alternate Universe, Apologies to the people of France, But a dynamite kisser, Childhood Trauma, Divorced Louis Tomlinson, Drinking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Established Ziall, Exploitation, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family Issues, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Harry is emotionally repressed, I didn't have a real role for Liam but he's mentioned, In an indirect way, Just some references to it, Louis is the baker in this one! Plot twist, M/M, Making Out, Niall Horan & Harry Styles Are Brothers, No Smut, Not explored all that explicitly but certainly implied, Original Character(s), Past Relationship(s), Read the summary for more info, Secret Crush, Self-Esteem Issues, Sharing a Bed, Waiter Harry Styles, You don't have to love The O.C. Season 4 but it can't hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 06:22:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 29,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23846662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrighteryellow/pseuds/abrighteryellow
Summary: Back at home in London after a whirlwind romance, Louis wants nothing more than to break ties completely with the sophisticated Frenchman who swept him off his feet. In order to do that, he needs the help of Harry Styles: former town bad boy and adopted brother of Louis' flatmate.AnO.C.AU about flawed first impressions, the seductive power of French pastries, bad romance novelists, and getting on the same page.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 78
Kudos: 313
Collections: One Direction Big Bang Round 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've always caped for its last season and Ryan Atwood/former mean girl Taylor Townsend, the unsung best couple on _The O.C._ And while you don't have to share my appreciation to understand this story, you should know that that's how I ended up with this.
> 
> Big thank you to the Big Bang mods for keeping all of us in line and making this exchange possible. I don't know how I'd be getting through quarantine without all of this new content. You're heroes.
> 
> Big love to [Kim,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KimmieRocks/pseuds/crinkle-eyed-boo)[ Maggie,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disgruntledkittenface/pseuds/disgruntledkittenface%22)[ Gillian, ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeah_alright/pseuds/yeah_alright) and Shannon for being such intelligent, indulgent betas. I don't deserve you!
> 
> I'm thrilled to have art by the incandescently talented [Niki, a.k.a. GlimmeringDoodles](https://glimmeringdoodles.tumblr.com/) in this piece. It was so much fun to collaborate with you and I hope it's not the last time we do!
> 
> Okay, to the heavy stuff:
> 
> I redacted the death of [redacted] from Ryan/Harry's backstory, so there is no grieving in this fic. However, he's still dealing with the trauma of having absent parents in his childhood (though he's a very well-loved member of the Horan clan these days), and Louis is estranged from his family and just out of an unhappy marriage. They're both resilient as fuck, but those things are real.
> 
> The world of '00s teen drama is a heightened one, so there's some genre-appropriate bad behavior. Most notably, Louis' ex indirectly exploits their sex life. His response to that is not the central plot of this fic, but please be aware and take care of yourselves.
> 
> Lastly, I apologize to the entire nation of France and anyone who lives there. Louis' ex is a bad guy from a lovely country. No offense is intended by his character.
> 
> Title comes from "The Pageant of the Bizarre" by Zero 7.

Despite all of it – despite his semi-split from his parents, the fact that he never really felt at home here as a child, and his current lack of any job and/or prospects – Louis is happy to be back in London.

When he’d boarded his plane to Paris, he had wondered if he would ever come back for good. Louis was eighteen and at the top of his class, bound for the Sorbonne and, ideally, intellectual immortality. A red beret (worn not at all ironically) sat perched at an angle on his head; the soothing, feminine voice of his favorite Advanced French Vocabulary podcast was in his ears; and nothing was in his past that he wouldn’t have happily left behind forever. 

Today, Louis is almost three hundred miles from his dream city, carefully pouring boiling hot water into the extra-large French press he’d bought for Zayn and Niall as a sort-of housewarming-slash-thanks-for-letting-me-crash-with-you-even-though-we’re-barely-friends gift. 

Fine. It was also a gift for himself. A refined palate was one piece of the baggage that Louis had brought back with him from France, and he could no more abide a weak and watery K-Cup than he could a kick in the shins.

A few weeks ago, he was desperate. Though he’d kept his head above water through three years of university, staying in Paris was obviously impossible. So he’d fled to the only home he’d previously known, only to have his mother greet him coldly at the door and ask why, exactly, she should have to put him up after he’d wasted “her” money on an incomplete education. Never mind that the money was actually his father’s – or more accurately, his father’s father’s, and so on, back through a line of frigid, constipated men who’d also passed down that chip on their shoulder that they’d never been accepted into nobility. That they had to settle for being rich as sin, as if that weren’t enough.

When Louis told his mother _why_ he left, she scoffed. It was no surprise to hear that he couldn’t keep a man. She wished Louis well, then shut the door in his face. 

Three years apart, and she hadn’t even touched him.

There weren’t many people Louis could call. Upper form was a means to an end, not a place to make friends. He’d thrown himself into maximizing his scores and loading up his CV, to the point where even one of the most exclusive universities in the world couldn’t turn him down. In the process, he’d been dismissive of his classmates, if not outright rude to them. Still, at the time, Louis wondered why he hadn’t attracted many admirers. He dressed impeccably, served on all the best clubs and boards, and was almost always right. Being the best, his parents had taught him, was all that mattered.

In all his years of school, Louis never slept over at a friend’s house or spent hours on the phone talking about nothing. He didn’t have time for it, and, if he’s honest, no one had ever expressed any interest.

Niall, though. He and Louis were assigned to partner on a debate project in their last year, and Niall had been remarkably kind to him. He’d shown up to the coffee shop where they’d agreed to meet wearing a crooked, unassuming grin and holding hands with his boyfriend Zayn, who shook Louis’ hand before kissing Niall goodbye and heading off to his part-time job. Niall acted as though there was no water between them to build a bridge over, even though Louis and Zayn had well and truly gotten into it during the campaign for honor society president. In the two weeks they had to prepare for their presentation, Louis even found himself enjoying Niall’s company as much as he did doing research and organizing notecards.

They said friendly hellos in the hallways after that, and even Zayn seemed to carry no ill will towards Louis. But they hadn’t spoken since Louis left for Paris. Standing at the foot of the stairs up to his parents’ Kensington townhouse, his finger hovered over Niall’s name in his contact list until he finally called and sheepishly explained his predicament. Niall told Louis that their door was open, and Louis cried in the taxi on the way over.

He promised Niall and Zayn that he’d be out of their hair as soon as possible, but Louis’ trust fund wasn’t available to him yet and, shockingly, there are few job opportunities out there for washed-up academics who are barely into their twenties.

A week before that, as Louis had careened through his old flat, sweeping up anything that belonged to him, Étienne wailed pathetically that anything he had was Louis’ to share. An underwhelming offer from a penniless novelist and, really, a pathetic attempt to convince Louis to stay.

Making their divorce official wouldn’t help Louis’ financial situation, though he wanted it done just the same.

Unfortunately, Étienne was less eager. When Louis wasn’t fruitlessly searching for a job, he was fielding his ex’s increasingly desperate and flowery calls and texts. Étienne wanted him back, and Louis didn’t know if it would be the fiftieth or the thousandth “no” that would put a stop to it, once and for all.

In the present, Louis’ phone buzzes. He instinctively begins pushing slowly down on the plunger of the French press, assuming that the sound means that the three-minute timer he set is now up. Glancing at the screen, he sees that it’s Étienne calling – a little early for his first appeal of the day. He leaves the plunger be and answers.

He knows that he shouldn’t, but some part of Louis could never resist hearing the Frenchman out.

“Bonjour, Étienne,” he sighs. 

“Ma petite pêche,” his former – well, current – husband says warmly.

Nicknames won’t get him anywhere. Louis hasn’t even been able to _eat_ a peach since he’d finally decided that his and Étienne’s relationship was over.

“What do you want?” Louis says, pointedly switching to English.

Étienne matches him.

“You know what I want, my darling…”

“Étienne,” Louis says. A warning.

“Alas,” Étienne continues grandly, “But I know that what I want is not what you want. And though it will plunge me into eternal despair, my sweet Louis should be happy.”

Suddenly, Louis is paying attention. This is new.

“He should?”

“Hm, oui.”

Louis disregards the over-exaggerated regret in his voice.

“What are you saying?”

He glances up at the clock on the microwave, then hurriedly pushes down the plunger on the press. Étienne distracted him into a _five-_ minute cup of coffee. This had better be good.

“I know now that you believe I am not the one for you,” Étienne continues. “I have asked you to reconsider. I have offered you everything. But it is not to be.”

“No,” Louis says, easing himself down into a chair at the kitchen table. “It isn’t.”

“I have sent my – how do you say? – my solicitor. As you asked for, ma pêche, he has the papers.”

“The _divorce_ papers?” Louis takes a fortifying sip of his coffee, swearing when he burns his tongue.

“Oui. The contract that will end our love,” Étienne says sadly.

Zayn picks that moment to wander into the kitchen in boxers and a t-shirt, rubbing the back of his neck and looking as though he’s still half asleep. Louis makes a face at him, widening his eyes and sending his eyebrows soaring. Zayn wrinkles his nose and shakes his head incredulously, then opens a high cabinet to retrieve his favorite cereal.

“Étienne, don’t take this the wrong way, because, trust me, we’re over, but why now? What changed your mind about making it official?”

Zayn whirls around from where he’s standing in front of the refrigerator and stares at Louis, an obvious question in his expression.

Louis nods, a small smile on his face, and Zayn fist pumps with the spoon he’s holding.

“My soul belongs to your soul,” Étienne says, as though he’s reading Louis the forecast for the day. “But I will not force you to love me. I have pride too, ma pêche.”

Louis rolls his eyes. No one would have ever accused his ex of lacking pride. His casual arrogance, in fact, was one industrial-size nail in the coffin of their relationship.

“I hope that it is okay I have given him your mobile number,” the voice at the other end of the phone goes on. “He will text you so that you can meet.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Louis can’t believe his ears. Could it be so easy? “That’s fine, of course. When should I, uh, when should I expect him?”

“He must be back here tomorrow,” Étienne tosses off. It’s _so_ like him to assume that Louis couldn’t possibly have anything else to do today.

He doesn’t. He’s unemployed and barely has two mates, but still.

“Cheers, thanks for the notice,” Louis says sarcastically.

“You are welcome, mon amour,” Étienne answers genuinely. “Now I must go. Please – do not weep when it is over. I want to always remember my Louis happy.”

The irony, this coming from the man who took less than three months to begin treating Louis as an afterthought, would disappear with his friends for days at a time, and laughed in Louis’ face when he asked Étienne to prove to him that there was more than just sex between them. Louis clenches his fists to keep his voice steady.

“Yeah, I’ll try.”

He pauses, a burst of fleeting nostalgia crashing over him. Étienne _was_ his husband, as poor of a decision as that turned out to be, Louis knew, without a doubt, that he wouldn’t have had the strength to start his life over _again_ if he hadn’t weathered their marriage.

“Thank you. For this. I know you wish things were different, so I appreciate you doing this for me anyway.”

“As you say, ma pêche,” Étienne sighs, “‘It is what it is.’”

Zayn halts his spoon halfway to his mouth when Louis exhales mightily and drops his phone on the table.

“So?”

“He’s okay with it,” Louis says, still not quite believing it. “The divorce. I have to meet some solicitor and sign the papers, and then–”

“You won’t be married anymore,” Zayn finishes, triumphant. 

“I won’t be married anymore.” Louis pauses, placing a thoughtful hand on his hip. “I’ll be a twenty-one-year-old divorcee.” He shrugs. It actually sounds pretty cosmopolitan to him. “And I can finally, _finally_ put this behind me.”

“You’re not leaving us yet, are you, Tommo?” 

Niall pads into the kitchen, pausing on his way to the coffee mugs to drop a kiss on Zayn’s temple. Not that they’re all over each other in front of him – though, Louis’ familiarity with Étienne’s adventurous friends and their proclivities did have him a tiny bit suspicious at first that Zayn and Niall were offering their guest room purely out of the goodness of their hearts – but they didn’t hesitate to show affection freely. Growing up in the home where he did, Louis didn’t have a lot of experience sharing space with couples who loved each other. When his father walked into a room, his mother would find an excuse to leave it, and vice versa.

Louis tries his best not to be creepy about it, but simply observing Niall and Zayn’s careful consideration of one another confirmed again that what he and Étienne had was just all wrong. Louis would have never dared to tease him the way they constantly do each other. Étienne would have never understood that it came from tenderness and familiarity, not spite. He also wouldn’t – didn’t – kiss Louis just to say “thank you” or “congratulations on your brilliant article” or “I’m glad that you’re here.” It always had to be the start of something.

Étienne claimed to be this fantastic lover, and okay, maybe he was. But only in bed. And sometimes the shower. And sometimes the balcony, under that oversized blanket.

He could speak of love for hours, compare Louis to cathedrals and arias and clear, summer skies. But he didn’t lift a finger to make Louis _feel_ loved. Not really. Not after they were married, at least.

The root of it was that Étienne was never his friend. Louis never felt at ease doing nothing with him. They had to be in bed or at a lecture or hosting one of their salons. But those moments couldn’t fill every day, and though Louis has never been particularly adept at interpersonal relationships, he knew that even _he_ deserved more. Indeed, being alone would be better than watching Étienne’s eyes go dull when the last of their guests left or when Louis tried to tell him some anecdote from his day.

“No, um, not yet,” Louis clarifies. “I hope that’s okay.”

Niall throws a “come on” expression over his shoulder.

“But I think my marriage might be over soon. Like, for real.”

“Are ya shittin’ me?” Niall asks, delightedly. “I’d make mimosas, but I think we finished the prosecco last weekend. Bailey’s for your coffee maybe? We gotta celebrate.”

Louis raises a hand to stop Niall from going to the liquor cabinet.

“No, no, that’s okay. _Thank you,_ but I should probably keep a clear head. The solicitor, he’s coming today, and I can’t muck this up. Who knows how long that bastard will drag this out if I do.”

“What’s the plan, then?” Zayn asks.

“I dunno, I–”

Louis’ phone screen lights up with a text from a number he doesn’t have saved. He quickly scans it to find the promised communication from Étienne’s solicitor, an Alexandre.

“He wants to meet early this evening. Somewhere I ‘feel comfortable,’” Louis relays to them.

“Ask him here,” Niall suggests, carding his fingers through Zayn’s bedhead.

“No, I couldn’t,” Louis says, feeling his cheeks warm. “It’s weird, maybe, but I don’t know. I’ve been happy here. I don’t want to bring those memories into your home.”

“Aw,” Zayn says, pooching out his bottom lip.

“Okay, do you have a favorite coffee shop? A pub you like?” Niall prompts.

Louis scans his memory only to come up with one depressing truth: he hasn’t formed an attachment – at least a positive one – to a single business in London. 

“Um,” he stalls, feeling his face go slack.

“What about Silvio’s?” 

“Huh?”

“Silvio’s, that Italian place that just opened,” Niall goes on. “It’s dead nice and close by. Harry’s been doing some shifts there, and I think he’s on tonight. Might be good to have a friendly face around, just in case. Unless you want one of us to come with you?”

“No,” Louis shakes his head at Niall’s sincere (and very sweet) offer. “That won’t be necessary. Shouldn’t even take that long.”

“Your call, Lou,” Niall says seriously. “I’d still feel better if you had someone lookin’ out for ya.”

“Harry’s a good bloke to have around in a crisis,” Zayn says sagely.

Louis tries to hold back a grimace. If he were Harry, he wouldn’t even tell Louis if the building they were in was on fire. 

Louis hadn’t been all that nice to anyone in school, except performatively. And even that effort was only applied to people who could do something for him. Harry had few close friends and never got his hands dirty with school politics, so Louis had never had to target him with an overwrought compliment or homemade cupcake.

Louis had also, perhaps, had a chip on his shoulder about status back then. It pains him to remember it, but his first impression of Harry was that he was the Horans’ charity case and didn’t belong in their selective school. 

Niall’s family moved from Ireland to England when he was ten; their chain of sporting goods stores expanding into the country. His dad was to oversee British operations while his uncles held things down in the motherland. With no worry for money, Niall’s mum, always a do-gooder, sought out employment with the closest legal aid office. Those were the cases she gave most of her passion to as a barrister back home, and, with the move, she wanted to devote herself full-time to helping those with few resources.

Late one night, she was called out to meet with a boy of fifteen — the same age as her son — who’d been the only suspect apprehended in an attempted carjacking. Her heart went out to Harry Styles, who’d been abandoned not only by the older boys who’d bullied him into helping them but also by his parents. His father hadn’t been home for a week, Harry told her, probably shacked up with another girlfriend after another bender. His mother he could barely remember and had stopped calling years before.

Maura Horan bailed Harry out herself and brought him back to their two-story flat. It was supposed to be a temporary solution.

Niall told the story like he was recounting the birth of Christ himself. 

As much as Niall, an only child and a bit of an odd bird at that, immediately worshipped him, Harry hadn’t fit in with the Horans’ lifestyle right away. He didn’t have any stories about summering in the south of Spain or keeping thoroughbred horses to update his classmates about. Mostly, he stayed quiet, only coming to life if Niall or anyone else close to him was threatened. Between his penchant for silence and his reputation for being a bit of a brawler, Louis assumed that Harry wasn’t very bright and treated him accordingly. 

Living with Niall had given Louis a new impression of Harry. He was Niall’s protector in more ways than one. He’d shown an incredible capacity for forgiveness when his mother attempted to reenter his life. He’d even done pretty well on his A-levels. 

And for some unearthly reason, he was polite to Louis whenever he came by to see Niall and Zayn.

Still, they were certainly not _friends._

Louis doesn’t have a lot of options, however. At the very least, he knows that Harry rarely turns down an opportunity to punch a deserving person in the face. He’ll be safe at Silvio’s.

*****

Louis has always had a passion for scheduling and arrives at the restaurant exactly five minutes before he’s due to meet Étienne’s envoy. Instead of opening the door right away, he peers into the window of the Italian restaurant, searching for any man sitting alone who looks, well, fucking French.

It’s early for dinner yet, so the dining room is almost empty. Two women sit at the bar with a half carafe of red wine between them. One party of four seems to be finishing up a late lunch. The staff move easily through the space, their workload still manageable at this point. Louis’ eye catches on a tall figure in black trousers and a black button-up who approaches the table of four with a pitcher of water. The angle isn’t quite right, so Louis can’t see his face properly until he bends down to refill their glasses. 

One of them must say “thank you” because Harry smiles, and it’s all jawline and dimple. Louis swallows.

As it turned out, once he started paying attention to Harry, it seemed that Louis couldn’t really stop.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Louis?”

Louis straightens too quickly and hits his head on the shadow box where the restaurant’s menu is displayed. 

“Shit.” He massages the spot on his forehead and turns towards the voice, cheeks hot.

The man is a few inches taller than him, dressed in a dark grey suit and white shirt, no tie. His hair is slicked back with product and his smile professionally whitened. He’s almost a carbon copy of Étienne, though his features are less striking. Still, Louis digs deep and steels himself. Alexandre is reminder enough of the life he left behind. 

“Yes, hello,” he says, attempting to collect himself. “You must be Alexandre?”

“Oui.” The man smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“How did you know it was me?” 

“Ah. Étienne described you so well, I could not be mistaken.”

“But you couldn’t see my face, I–” Louis stops when Alexandre’s grin contorts into something lewd. “Never mind,” he mutters. “Shall we get this over with?”

Alexandre pulls the door of the restaurant open and makes an “after you” gesture. Reluctantly, Louis leads the way, though he walks as stiffly as possible, determined not to let his hips sway.

There’s no one at the host stand just yet, but a waiter approaches as soon as they’re inside.

“Please,” he says. “Sit anywhere you like. Here for dinner?” He pinches two menus between his fingers.

“Just drinks,” Louis quickly corrects him. “We’ll sit at the bar if that’s alright.” 

The waiter lets the menus fall back into the pile and claps his hands together in approval. “Very well.”

Louis casually sweeps his eyes over the rest of the room as they take their seats, but Harry must be back in the kitchen. It’s the bartender, a young woman with dark brown hair dipped in blue who greets them next. 

“Whatever you desire,” Alexandre says to Louis. “Étienne pays.”

Louis almost snorts. It’s the least he can do. 

The petty part of him wants to order an Italian wine, but there was much more to France than just his selfish ex-husband. He fell in love with the way its people were just as selective about bread, cheese, and wine as they were about art and poetry. Louis developed his own taste there, learning how a wine transformed when it was allowed to open up and how placing a piece of dark chocolate on his tongue and then taking a sip of port made the flavors of both explode.

Perusing the wine list, he lands on a sancerre. Alexandre gestures to the bartender to make it two.

She walks away to find and cork the bottle, and Alexandre turns to Louis, his hands folded on the bar. His small messenger bag lays on the next stool, notably unopened. Louis appreciates that he came a long way, but this isn’t a social call.

“So, how do we do this?” he asks, hoping to head off any incoming small talk.

“Louis, hey.”

Louis lifts his eyes to find Harry standing just behind the bar, dropping off a rack of clean pint glasses. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to just underneath his elbows, exposing his tanned forearms. He abandoned his long, loose, rocker curls after high school, chopping his chocolate brown locks to just above his ears. Louis didn’t realize how used to that Harry he had been until he was gone. Fortunately, he kept the length on top, allowing the steam from the industrial dishwasher to form the perfect swirl that currently falls over Harry’s forehead. 

His smile is warm and genuine, though his green eyes – containing much more intelligence than Louis had initially given them credit for – remain agnostic. Louis is being greeted as a casual acquaintance...by a much more generous spirit than he himself possesses.

Fortunately, he can call upon one lesson his mother drilled into him that has actually proved helpful: Never let them see you sweat.

“Hullo, Harry,” Louis grins, straightening in his seat. “How’s your evening so far?”

“Ah, not bad. But it’s barely started. We’ll be slammed in about an hour.”

“That’s why me and Alexandre here stopped in early. I told him we simply _had_ to come to Silvio’s. Best service in London.”

Harry shakes his head and wrinkles his nose in amusement as the bartender deposits two paper coasters in front of Louis and Alexandre, followed by their glasses of white. Louis has never before set foot in this establishment, and he knows it.

“Enjoy your night then, gentleman. And your wine. Kacey here will take good care of you.”

Harry wipes his hands on the apron tied around his waist and again disappears into the back.

Louis doesn’t realize he’s still smiling at the space where Harry just stood until Alexandre taps his glass against his.

“To new beginnings, yes?” Alexandre raises one eyebrow when Louis turns to him, his smile twisting. “And to beautiful men, for they are everywhere. Even in the kitchens, eh?”

Louis sips his wine, unable to match the playfulness in Alexandre’s eyes as they peer at him over the rim. Why _shouldn’t_ beautiful men be in the kitchens?

“Right. Well, I don’t want to waste your time. You were good enough to come out here. Can we just go over the details and then I’ll sign whatever you need me to sign?”

“Oui, of course, of course.” 

Alexandre pulls his messenger bag into his lap and opens the flap, revealing a very small stack of papers. He slides the stack out and places it on the bar in front of him, pushing his glass and coaster back to make room.

“It is very simple. After all of you sign this document, your marriage will be legally ended.”

It’s a strange word choice, for which Louis blames the language barrier.

“May I?” Louis holds out his hands.

“They are yours, monsieur,” Alexandre shrugs. 

Louis gingerly takes the papers and begins rifling through them, scanning the words. Obviously, he’s fluent in French, but not so much in French legalese. Though it pains him to, he has to ask Alexandre some clarifying questions about certain phrases. This is Louis’ first and hopefully only divorce, so what does he know? But it all seems pretty standard until…

“Adultère? I don’t–” Louis scans back over the sentences he’s just read. “Could you explain this bit? We didn’t have a prenuptial agreement, so no one would be in breach of that if they cheated.”

“Ah, well. Here it says that Étienne will grant you a divorce if you and your lover confirm that you have found happiness together.”

The sancerre sours in his mouth. The sound of the other diners conversing as they trickle in warps in his ears. 

“My _what?”_

“Your lover,” Alexandre repeats simply. “The terms are quite, uh, direct? You have passion with another, so Étienne will release you from your commitment. He is a man of his word. You write here about the relationship you share with this other man, and then you both sign.”

Louis barks a high laugh. How could he have ever thought that he loved his husband? He was just that desperate to escape.

“You know what, Alexandre? Somehow, when that slimey, pretentious _arsehole_ called me this morning, he left out the part where I had to exploit my sex life just to get away from him.”

“If this is not pleasing to you, Monsieur Louis, I can go back and discuss with Étienne changing the terms?”

Stupid. He was stupid to even entertain the thought that his nightmare would be over today – with Étienne footing the bill, no less. There was always a catch with his ex. Louis would be the man of his dreams _if_ he improved himself in all the ways Étienne suggested. Louis could have the holiday to Spain that he wanted _if_ he hosted Étienne’s friends twice a week throughout the school year. The chemistry that fizzed between them when they first met was a liar, whispering in Louis’ ear that finally things would be easy. And now here he sits, about to let his chance to break free walk out the door, extending his misery for god knows how long.

If Étienne can lie by omission without a shred of remorse, then Louis can bend the truth too.

He drains the rest of his wine, ignoring Alexandre’s injured expression.

At the far end of the bar, he spots Harry helping Kacey out, mopping up a puddle where she overfilled a cocktail shaker and it caused a minor eruption. She thanks him, and Harry squeezes her shoulder before heading back to the dining room to bus another table. 

“Don’t be silly, no reason to do that,” Louis says brightly, his mind turning. “If that’s what Étienne wants, I suppose that’s what I’ll have to do. My boyfriend won’t like it; he’s a very private man. But he’ll do anything to please me, I’m sure.”

“Very well!” Alexandre looks satisfied, as though he’d pulled off some fancy lawyering instead of just delivering Étienne’s manipulative messages. “You see? It is easy.”

“It might take a few days,” Louis cautions. “I may have to turn on the charm, you know how men can be.”

“Then I will stay. Cancel my appointments. It is no trouble.”

No trouble at all. All Louis needs is the signature of someone single – their ruse only has to be believable enough to last until Alexandre leaves. With his ex in another country, Étienne will never have to know that Louis didn’t immediately fall into another fervid love affair but was instead squatting in an acquaintance’s guest room and going to bed alone every night.

“Another round?” The bartender grins at them expectantly, but Louis has business to attend to.

“Just the bill, love,” Louis says, then glances at Alexandre, who’s reaching for his wallet. It’s not an expense he needs, but somehow, rejecting Étienne’s money is worth it. “I’ll take it.”

“Of course, just a moment.”

Harry returns to deliver a tray of empties just as Louis is leaving Kacey’s tip on the bar. 

“Heading out already?”

He’s on their side of the divide now, holding the now empty tray against his hip with his wrist. Alexandre sizes him up without shame, which Harry politely ignores.

If Louis wants this to work – and he _needs_ this to work – he has to sell it.

“It was just a bit of business,” Louis says, turning his stool towards Harry and letting his voice slide up provocatively. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”

He prays Harry doesn’t ruin it by making that face – the one that makes him look like a confused frog.

“Um...okay,” the frog says, but it’ll have to do. “I’ll be by the flat this weekend.”

Louis wants to kiss him for not mentioning Niall or Zayn. And, since that’s all part of his play here, he doesn’t try to school his expression, even as Harry tilts his head slightly in confusion.

“I guess I’ll see you then,” Louis purrs. 

Harry holds a second, possibly waiting for Louis to explain. Instead, Louis blinks slowly, holding Harry’s gaze.

Harry raises a hand in an awkward farewell and turns to go back to work with a shake of his head that Alexandre blessedly doesn’t appear to notice. 

“It is true what they say,” he says instead, leaning in far too closely. “It is the opposite that is attractive.”

“Excuse me?”

“This, this _boy,_ ” Alexandre continues, gesturing after Harry. “Salt of the earth, no? Nothing like your husband. You rebel.”

Louis doesn’t care at all for the judgment in his tone.

“My soon-to-be _ex-_ husband, you mean,” he sniffs. “You’re right on your other point though. Harry is nothing like Étienne. He works hard. He actually gives a shit about people other than himself. He’s worth ten of your client, Alexandre. And after Étienne signs these papers, you can tell him I said that.”

*****

Louis left a few details out of the debrief he gave Zayn and Niall, including that he’d let Étienne’s solicitor believe that Harry was his lover. He didn’t tell them about his ex’s deranged terms at all, in fact. If they knew, they’d want to hear about his plan for getting around them. And as Louis has no intention of _Harry_ ever knowing the truth, that was just impossible.

With all that in mind, there’s no way Louis could wait for Harry to swing by for his FIFA date with the two of them. He’d have to catch him before.

Fortunately, Niall and Zayn keep an old-school address book in the kitchen – one of the ways in which Niall is very much his mother’s son.

So under the guise of running errands, Louis takes the tube to Harry’s stop after breakfast and follows the directions on his phone to Harry’s door, his divorce papers stuck under his arm.

Since returning home from the restaurant last night, he’s been consumed with his mission. Freedom is so close that he can taste it, with just one task in the way. It’s not until he rings the bell for Harry’s flat that he questions his typically thoughtless plan to just show up without any notice. Harry works at night, this is true. But for all Louis knows, he could already be out...or worse, _with_ someone.

He’s an intelligent person. He doesn’t understand why things don’t always occur to him when they should.

But Louis has come all this way, and Harry, most unexpectedly, is his ticket out of Étienne’s grasp. So he presses the doorbell next to #2 and pulls in a breath, fingers tapping nervously on his thigh.

“Yeah?” a tinny but deep voice comes from the speaker.

“Harry? It’s Louis. Louis Tomlinson? I’m sorry to barge in on you, but I need to ask a favor.”

Silence.

“I brought croissants!” Louis adds, holding up the pastry bag as if Harry could see it.

“Come on up,” Harry finally says, and the door buzzes angrily.

The door to his flat is open a crack by the time Louis arrives on the second floor, so he pushes it open with his knuckles and calls Harry’s name again.

“Hey, man.” Harry emerges from the hall in worn jeans and a simple t-shirt, rubbing his wet hair with a grey towel. That, along with his bare feet, tells Louis that he recently stepped out of the shower. “What’s up?”

“Harry, hi,” Louis rushes out. _Always open with a compliment_ , he thinks. Unfortunately, the ones that come to mind first are all inappropriate. Harry’s full lips may be a shade pinker than usual on account of the hot water, but Louis can’t very well tell _him_ that.

“That shirt, it really brings out your eyes.”

Harry looks down at his chest, a little wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. “It’s...black. What can I do for you, Louis?”

Harry balls up the towel and tosses it into the dark of the small hallway before brushing by him to the kitchen.

“It’s just a tiny favor. It’s stupid, really,” Louis chuckles.

Harry opens a cabinet and retrieves two glasses, then goes for the fridge.

“Orange juice or water?”

“Uh, orange juice. Please. Thank you, that’s really kind.”

No one ever came through the Horan home without being served. Niall’s mother’s hospitality was legendary, and it seems that both of her sons inherited it.

“No problem. Have a seat.” 

Harry’s place is small but neat. And unlike most single men in their age group, he actually owns matching furniture. If Louis had to hazard a guess, surveying the cozy studio, he would say that Harry insisted on paying for his own flat, with the Horans getting their way by handing down things to put in it. While most of their classmates didn’t lose a wink of sleep relying on their family money to fund ludicrously indulgent startups that would fail only to be replaced by even more ludicrously indulgent startups, Harry didn’t take his newfound privilege for granted. 

Not that his three years at the Sorbonne even put a dent in his own family’s finances, but Louis envied Harry’s determination to be his own man without alienating or offending his parents. Then again, even with the criminal record, Harry was dealing with a far more functional set of relatives than Louis ever had. His past is another story, but Harry seems to have made peace with it.

Of anyone, he’d understand Louis’ need to move on.

He sits down at the tiny breakfast bar, places the bag of croissants in the center and the papers right in front of him, and watches Harry pour two tall glasses of juice

“I should have called, I’m sorry,” he rambles on. “It’s just that I’m in a bit of a bind, and I think you may be able to help me.”

“If I can, I will.”

Louis smiles, already relieved. “Okay, so. The man you saw me with yesterday? The creepy leering guy? That’s my husband’s solicitor. As you know, we’ve been broken up since before I moved in with Zayn and Niall, but he wouldn’t make it official. Kept trying to win me back, woo me back to France so we could ‘talk about it.’ For some reason, he’s changed his mind and _these–”_ Louis puts his palm on the paperwork. “–are our divorce papers. Finally.”

“I don’t know, Louis.” Harry takes the seat opposite him, the table between them so narrow that Louis can smell the light floral scent of Harry’s moisturizer. He didn’t strike him as a bloke with a skin care routine, but then again, there’s ample evidence that his first impressions aren’t entirely reliable. “Maura’s really the expert, I don’t know if–”

“No, no, I don’t need legal advice,” Louis interrupts. “All I need is a signature. It’s a testament to my character kind of thing. You’d be the third party who swears I’m a good citizen and haven’t, I don’t know, run over any puppies.” He drops his voice, so Harry realizes he’s not kidding. “Because I wouldn’t, Harry.”

The corner of Harry’s mouth tugs upward. “No, I know. So is this, like, a standard thing? I’ve never heard of a character witness for a divorce before.”

Louis twirls his wrist in the air. “You know the French, Harry. They’re quite quirky.”

“Mm.” Harry flips through the pages. Louis could swear that he took Latin in school and prays that his memory hasn’t steered him wrong. “Why me?” After a beat, he glances back at Louis. The skin on the back of his neck prickles; Harry’s steady gaze makes him feel as though he can see right through him.

Fortunately, it’s a question Louis anticipated.

“Zayn and Niall have the same address as me, at least for now. There’s some clause against using flatmates and family, not that any of them would actually help.”

“You really don’t think so?”

“Oh, my mother made it clear when I came home. As far as she’s concerned, this is all my fault.” 

Louis has no idea why he brought _that_ up. Sometimes his mouth moves faster than his brain. He takes a sip of his juice to occupy it for a second.

Harry frowns. “That you fell out of love with the guy?”

And, well, Harry seems genuinely concerned. Louis can see why he’s played the knight-in-shining armor role so often. This was a person you wanted to be rescued by, because he’d never look down on you for needing it. 

“That I must have done something to drive him away. Never occurred to her that maybe I was the one who wanted out. Wanted more.” 

“I would say that I don’t want to intrude, but under the circumstances...why did you even marry him in the first place?”

Another simple answer, only this one is the truth. Louis didn’t have to journal or go back to therapy to figure out how Étienne had swept him so cleanly off his feet. He remembers it all too well. And even now, he doesn’t fault himself for chasing the feelings his ex stirred in him.

“I could say it was because he was handsome,” he says, staring down into his glass. “And he wrote romantic poetry and introduced me to artists and all of that. But it wasn’t even half of it. I said yes when Étienne asked me to be his husband because he seemed interested in me. In _my_ thoughts, my opinions. When I talked, he wouldn’t look away, not even for a second, like everything I said might be some revelation he didn’t want to miss. I didn’t have that here — not at school and certainly not at home. And a lot of that was my own fault, I know I was...difficult.” He lifts his eyes back to Harry’s, but there’s nothing there to betray that he has any idea of what Louis is talking about except a twitch in his cheek. “But Étienne made me feel like maybe I had changed. Like maybe I was somebody worth knowing.”

Harry opens his mouth to speak.

“Of course, it was all an act,” Louis rushes out with a shrug. “He dropped it right after the wedding. And then, the only way I could get his attention was with sex.”

“Excuse me?”

“Harry, that man.” Louis shakes his head, remembering that delicious, heavy feeling he’d get when his husband was near. “From the moment we met, it was like our sensual beings were _destined_ to collide. I couldn’t resist him. That’s why I knew I had to leave. He’s like some kind of erotic wizard. I mean, I’m pretty open-minded, but I never thought that anyone would get me to try–”

“Okay.” Harry lifts a hand and closes his eyes. “I’m gonna stop you right there.”

“Anyway.” Sometimes Louis forgets that he’s back in the land that invented repression. “That wasn’t enough to keep me there. So I left. I may be agnostic in many things, Harry, but I do believe in true love.”

“That’s great, Louis. Really. A lot of people would have settled, so good for you.”

And that’s what makes Louis blush.

Harry doesn’t hand out compliments like bribes, unlike some people Louis knows (is). He only says what he means.

Louis looks down to find that their hands are resting next to the papers, only a few inches apart. Who even owns a table this small? It’s bloody ridiculous. 

He yanks his hand back quickly with the excuse of finding the pen he tucked into his pocket.

“Right. So, yeah. Could I get your autograph then?”

Harry finishes off his juice and pushes back from the table.

“Leave it here. I’ll bring it over to the flat later.”

“But–”

“You actually caught me on a busy morning.” Harry checks his phone for the time. “I’ve got some errands to run. You understand.” 

On his terms, the conversation is over. Louis hadn’t felt the shift until it was too late. But if he makes a fuss about getting the signature right now, Harry could become even more suspicious. He has to leave the document with him.

“No, of course. Take your time.” 

“Want to take one of those to go?”

Harry flicks his eyes towards the bag, then picks up both glasses – Louis’ still half-full – and puts them in the sink. 

Hint taken.

“No, they’re for you.”

Louis comes to his feet and backs up through the flat, Harry following him.

“It’s silly, I know, but I really appreciate you doing this for me. Just one little signature, and that’ll be it. I’ll be free. You’d really be my hero, Harry. I’ll even get Niall to go easy on you in FIFA.”

Harry halts in his tracks. “I taught Niall everything he knows about FIFA,” he mutters.

“Naturally,” Louis laughs wildly. “That’s what I meant!” 

Oh god, he’s onto him. What if he’s onto him?

“Just right on that page with the Post-It,” he blabbers on as Harry opens the door. “You can’t miss it.”

“Yep,” Harry says, crowding Louis out into the hall. “I got it. Thanks for the croissants. See you later, Louis.”

*****

But Louis doesn’t see him later. Harry’s estimated arrival (which he made sure to overhear) comes and goes. Louis doesn’t comment on it – couldn’t if he wanted to. He tries to concentrate on his Balzac while Zayn and Niall load up the coffee table with bags of crisps and pretzels and then take the virtual field without Harry. (As always, they offer up a controller to Louis, knowing that he won’t accept it. FIFA isn’t exactly one of his strengths.) But _La Comédie humaine_ can’t hold his attention like it normally does. His is a problem too big for even Balzac’s humanist take on the French Restoration to solve. 

So he gives up with a heavy sigh that his flatmates either truly don’t or pretend not to notice and retires to the kitchen, where he starts to raid the cabinets and the refrigerator for all the tools and ingredients he needs to calm his mind. Louis spends the next few hours crafting an impressively moist clafoutis, if he does say so himself, plus a round of perfectly singed creme caramel, keeping his ears open for any off-handed mention of the person who quite literally holds his fate in his hands.

When the light cools and the early evening rolls in and the mixing bowls have all been washed and dried, Louis runs out of patience. As casually as he can, he asks whatever happened to Harry – wasn’t he supposed to come ‘round?

Niall explains that Harry texted that he’d decided to pick up an extra shift at the last minute. No big deal to him, who sees Harry almost every day and isn’t relying on him to liberate him from a prison of a marriage.

On the bright side, Niall’s answer doesn’t betray any sign that Harry told his brother all about his frantic boarder, who’d shown up on Harry’s doorstep with the most bizarre request. But that, aside from pure necessity, is why he’d chosen Harry: he’s never been one for gossip. Or talking, come to think of it.

“Did he ever say anything about…” Louis begins, staring at the flour dust disappearing with every swipe of the dish towel in his hand.

“What’s that?” Niall prompts, retrieving another beer from the fridge.

“Never mind. ‘S nothing.”

Niall shrugs and returns to the sofa and the game, nudging Zayn to take it off of pause. The three of them order curry and make a sizable dent in Louis’ anxiety bake for pudding. But Louis’ phone doesn’t make a sound, nor do either of the other boys get a message for him.

His heart pulses ominously in his already tight chest when he glances at the clock and finds that it’s well after ten.

“Should I leave one out, in case Harry pops by when he gets off?” Louis asks as they clean up.

“Nah, wouldn’t think so,” Zayn says with a yawn. “He’ll be knackered.”

“Right. Of course.”

Louis covers the last pot of creme caramel with cling film (bless Maura Horan for her insistence on purchasing Zayn and Niall every piece of cookware known to man, even though they subsist on takeaway and spaghetti) and stores it in the refrigerator, then retires to the guest room to stare at his phone.

At nine in the morning, Louis caves and sends Harry a simple Whatsapp message.

A couple of hours later, Louis actually calls.

It goes straight to voicemail, and he isn’t at all surprised to hear that Harry’s gone with the automated message instead of the kind where the owner of the number tries to sound witty or professional or desperately in-demand socially. Louis leaves a short, sweet, and hopefully sane-sounding request for Harry to please ring him back at his earliest convenience.

When that fails to yield any results, it becomes abundantly clear that Louis is being ghosted. And by someone he’s not even dating. (Not that he’s thought about what that might be like, because he hasn’t.)

Harry can’t hide from him forever. In fact, Louis knows exactly where to find him. 

So he slides through the doors at Silvio’s around the same time he and Alexandre were there for drinks – their slow period, so Harry won’t be able to use work to avoid him.

“Good evening sir, may I get you a table or–”

“Half of my party’s already arrived, thanks,” Louis says, looking past the host to the service area where Harry’s standing with his back to him, stacking fresh bundles of napkins and utensils.

Louis makes a beeline towards him, throwing his shoulders back and lifting his chin. Confidence, Tomlinson. Always confidence.

“Harry, may I speak with you?” he says primly once he reaches him.

“Louis! How’s it going?” Harry turns and greets him smoothly, his composure telling Louis that he saw and heard his messages and, indeed, had been expecting him to show up here tonight. 

Louis can do polite too. He _invented_ polite.

“Just coming by to check on my favorite busser,” he beams, leaning his hip against the station. “You know, I bet they promote you to server in no time.”

“Appreciate the vote of confidence. Anything else I can do for you?”

“Now that you mention it. I was also hoping to get those papers back from you.” Louis bats his eyes, just like mother taught him. “From the other day?”

“Oh, you mean the legal document that says that you and I are sleeping together?”

Louis’ hand flutters to his sternum and he gapes in shock. _“Harry,_ I just got out of a very serious relationship.”

“I translated it, Louis,” Harry says sharply. “Scanned it into an app. It took two pounds and all of sixty seconds. How thick do you think I am?”

“Those things aren’t always reliable. Could be a bug.”

“So it doesn’t say that we had sex like thirty times?”

“Did you at least get to the part where I said you were a great lover?” Louis asks with a hopeful smile.

Harry pulls an empty dish basin from underneath the station and strides into the dining room, assuming correctly that Louis will follow him. 

“You lied to me,” he states as he begins to clear dessert plates and coffee cups from a recently vacated table.

“Harry, I didn’t.”

Harry glares at him.

“Alright, I did, but only because I am... _desperate._ Étienne dropped this on me, and I didn’t know what to do and you were right there and...It doesn’t _mean_ anything, you know. It’s just a piece of paper. It’ll get filed away somewhere in another country, and you’ll never see it again. You don’t ever have to see _me_ again if you don’t want to.”

“You asked me to sign a legal document, and you _lied_ to me about what it said,” Harry says, his calm finally making way for an incredulity that makes Louis wince.

He’s fucked up. Again.

“Please. Please, hear me out.”

Harry sighs, then cocks his head to the right. He hauls the basin into the kitchen, Louis coming through the swinging double doors right on his heels.

“I don’t deserve your kindness, not after the way I treated you,” Louis says, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the dishwasher and the chef and her staff chopping crisp vegetables in preparation for the dinner crowd.

Harry stops at a large industrial sink, setting the basin inside and turning on the spray. “I’m a big boy, Louis.”

“I don’t want to be punished forever just because I wanted to be loved,” Louis practically yells as Harry blasts the dishes. “Étienne wanted me around, and I’d never had that before. Not even with my parents. So yes, I gave into him. Can you blame me?”

Harry turns off the water and dries his hands with a clean, white towel hanging on a rail next to him. He tosses it to Louis when he’s finished and is back out on the main floor before Louis can even use it.

Louis hangs the towel neatly on the rail, careful to make the shorter sides line up.

He finds Harry at the service station again, loading up a tray with clean settings for the table he just serviced. 

“It’s not up to me,” Harry says when he feels Louis approach from the side. “Your choices aren’t any of my business, but this?” He reaches underneath a stack of menus and produces the divorce papers. “This is. You’re going to have to find someone else.”

He pushes the stack into Louis’ chest without any force.

“There’s no time,” Louis pleads. “The solicitor, he’s leaving tomorrow night. If I don’t give him an answer, Étienne could hold this divorce over me forever.”

Louis must look as pitiful as he feels, because Harry finally stops moving to see him – really see him – and his expression is one of concern, not blame.

“I’m sorry. I really am. I don’t think it’s okay, what he’s doing to you. But I’m just not the guy to help.”

*****

“Aw, petal,” Niall is saying as Louis’ eyes flutter open the next morning. “You been out here all night?”

Louis looks past Niall where he sits on the coffee table to find a presenter with a big-toothed grin demonstrating a vegetable chopper on TV – a sure sign that he’s fallen asleep moping to Turner Classic Movies again.

That and the ache in the back of his neck.

Fighting his disorientation, Louis runs a hand through his hair roughly, dislodging the sofa’s throw blanket from his body in the process. He’s still in his trousers and t-shirt, though he’d at least granted himself the comfort of popping the button at his waist.

“Guess so,” he replies, voice scratchy with a terrible night’s sleep.

It comes back to him slowly. He returned from the restaurant despondent at his circumstances and embarrassed by how he’d tried to manipulate Harry. He was saved the additional humiliation of sharing that with his flatmates as Zayn and Niall were out. So Louis ate three pots of creme caramel for supper and plopped himself in the living room, listlessly scrolling the channels until he came across a familiar black and white frame: _The Philadelphia Story._

He scooched miserably back into the cushions and put his feet up, settling in to watch Katherine Hepburn’s socialite divorcee attempt to remarry as Jimmy Stewart and Cary Grant do their best to interfere. He’s always loved this movie – it’s a classic – but last night he found himself identifying more than ever with Tracy Lord. All she wants is to move on, but then these _men_ show up _the day before her wedding_ to throw all of her flaws back in her face. As if expecting the best from people is too much.

So, she has standards. Is that such a terrible crime? 

In the end, Tracy gets back together with her ex. It’s a “happy” conclusion he’d seen many times before, but finishing up a second glass of the Cabernet he picked up on the way home, Louis booed as they said their vows. He booed Cary Grant, and he’s not even sorry.

Nevertheless, he kept the TV where it was for another classic film and a half, nodding off somewhere around the time Miss Havisham’s decrepit wedding dress caught ablaze.

His subconscious must have sensed the theme and rejected it.

“Sorry,” Louis says, sitting up awkwardly. “If that woke you.”

“Nah, not at all. Playing nine with Dad if he ever comes to pick me up.”

Only then does Louis notice that Niall is in his golf gear: white trousers and a turquoise polo, his brown hair covered by a navy Nike cap. He and his father usually go out a couple of times a month; Niall says it’s the only time when he can get the old man talking. Whatever they say to each other out there, it sends Niall back even lighter than he was when he left. 

For a few seconds, Louis’ desperation makes way for jealousy.

“Oh.”

Niall frowns. “You okay?”

Louis opens his palms, indicating his rumpled clothes from the day before. 

“Why, don’t I look it?”

“Louis,” Niall says seriously.

_“Niall,”_ he mocks back.

“What happened? With your husband, how did he screw you over this time? Because I know he did.”

“But your dad, he’s–”

“Twenty minutes late to everything, bare minimum.” He rises from the coffee table and heads towards the kitchen. “Tell me.”

Louis forces himself upright so he can follow Niall’s movements. “The divorce agreement. He won’t sign it unless I can prove that I’ve been unfaithful.”

“Well, that’s insane.” Niall takes a glass from the cabinet and begins to fill it with the water dispenser on the refrigerator door.

“When we got together, he had me jumping through hoops for him before I even realized it. And here’s one more.”

“How do you even prove something like that?” Niall returns, handing Louis the cool glass.

Louis’ mouth is sticky and dry with sleep, so he gulps half the water immediately. But that’s not all that’s stopping the words from getting out. If Harry had told Niall what happened, Niall wouldn’t be sitting here asking him. But there’s no sense in lying to him now, not when the divorce is dead in the water anyway. 

Still mortifying.

“A signature,” Louis says, cupping the glass between his hands. “I had to type up this completely fabricated story of a torrid love affair and find somebody to swear to it. And Harry, he–”

“Whoa, wait. You got Harry to commit perjury for you?” Niall grins, delighted by the idea. “Not that he’s a stranger to breaking the law, but this is a new one.”

“We talked at the restaurant, and Alexandre – the solicitor – he just assumed.”

“Yeah, well. You’re a smart cookie, babe, but you’re not exactly subtle,” Niall teases, crossing his legs where he’s still perched on the coffee table.

“I _beg_ your pardon,” Louis scoffs, so taken aback that he almost dumps his water on the living room carpet.

“You fancy Harry,” Niall shrugs, calmly taking the glass from Louis’ hands. “You get all red and stammery when he’s around. One time you told me you thought he was _funny._ Harry, funny. We’ve been waiting for you to say something.”

“ _We?”_

“Zaynie caught on first. I think it was that night where you kept finding jars to have him open. We had to eat three months-worth of salsa in a week.”

Louis flops backwards, pulling the blanket over his face as he goes. 

“Niall, my life is _over,”_ he wails from underneath the fuzzy fabric.

“Why? I’ve caught him eyeing you a fair few times.”

Louis pulls the blanket down to his chin so he can look for signs that Niall is having him on. But Niall is regarding him openly, if a little amused by his theatrics. 

This information would have been interesting three days ago, before Louis had killed any chances of him and Harry being friends, let alone whatever Niall was implying. Now it’s just the salt in his wound.

“Because I didn’t tell him what the paper said and I still tried to make him sign it but he figured it out and now he thinks I’m some... _unhinged_ liar. And I can’t find someone else because I let Alexandre think that _Harry_ is my lover. So now Harry hates me and Alexandre is leaving first thing tomorrow morning and I’m _still married.”_

Niall takes it all in, opening and closing his mouth a few times before he actually responds.

“I know this doesn’t help, but why didn’t you just tell Harry the truth and ask him to go along with it?”

“Because why should he help me?” Louis laments. “After the way I was, the things I said about you all. I acted like he was nothing, and what, he’s just suddenly going to forgive me?”

“I did. Zayn did. Teenagers are assholes, Louis. It’s how we make amends for those mistakes that matters, and you’re a great friend. Harry may not live with us, but I’m sure he can see how you changed. Either way, he doesn’t hold grudges – not about stuff like that.”

“But to stick his neck out for me of all people.” Louis shakes his head. “I just don’t see any reason why he should.”

“Because that’s what Harry _does,_ Tommo,” Niall sighs. “He has an addiction to helping the underdog. It’s like he can sense when someone’s in a rough spot, and he cannot stop himself from getting involved, no matter how many times my mom has told him to look out for himself first. He may say he wants to stay out of things, but he never does. Why do you think he gets into so many fights?”

Louis starts to blink rapidly. Willing the tears of frustration, guilt, and embarrassment back in only ensures that they start to fall.

“Give him another chance,” Niall urges. “Apologize to him, _sincerely._ Don’t do that thing where you come in all confident and thunder around and try to make people forget that you fucked them over, okay?” He smiles indulgently. “We all hate that.”

The phone on the table next to him lights up. Niall glances down at it, then back at Louis, who’s sort of stunned that his flatmate has come to know him so well.

“That’s Dad, so I gotta go. But look: if he doesn’t come around after that, then maybe I don’t know Harry as well as I thought. But he _is_ my brother, Louis. So come on, yeah? Dry those eyes. We’ll have you single and ready to mingle in no time.”

*****

Louis tries to apologize, he really does. The second time he reaches Harry’s voicemail, he comes to terms with the fact that Harry isn’t going to answer if it’s him calling and leaves a contrite message. Per Niall’s advice, it’s short and direct. Louis doesn’t make any excuses or harp on about his circumstances. He simply tells Harry that he’s sorry for abusing his compassion and trust. 

But, just as before, Harry doesn’t respond. 

Early in the afternoon, Alexandre confirms over text that he’ll meet Louis back at Silvio’s that evening – their final meeting before he flies back at dawn the next morning. The solicitor has no reason to believe that Louis isn’t coming with the agreement signed, and Louis can’t bear to correct him – not yet. Because when he does, that’ll be it. His fate will be sealed. 

Louis should really stop expecting saviors who ride in on white horses. He thought he had one in Étienne and look where that’s gotten him.

He reads all day, page after page until the space behind his eyes hurts. If he’s reading someone else’s thoughts, he doesn’t have to be alone with his.

He doesn’t set foot out of the flat until it’s time to meet Alexandre and set all of this straight.

He should have suggested another restaurant, Louis thinks as he hesitates outside of Silvio’s door. The chances are too good that Harry will see him at another low moment. He might even believe Louis did it to punish him, which won’t help his case at all. But it all seemed so pointless in the planning. What did it matter where it happened if Louis was just admitting defeat?

He quickly scans the room as soon as he’s inside. No sign of Harry. With any luck – and really, could Louis have _any_ luck? – he’s off for the night.

Alexandre, unfortunately, is already there, grinning at Louis and beckoning him over from a spot at the bar. 

Louis tugs at the hem of his black collared jumper and joins him, thankful to find a glass of the same sancerre already at his place setting.

“Alright?”

“Bonjour, monsieur Louis,” Alexandre simpers. “You look well this evening.”

That had been the plan. If Louis was going down, he was going down in his highest quality cashmere.

“Thanks. Nice, uh, chain.” 

Alexandre pinches a frankly garish medal between his thumb and forefinger and smiles again.

“I hope this trip hasn’t been too much trouble for you,” Louis says before taking a sip of the pale gold liquid. 

“No, of course not. Étienne is my friend, so I do a favor. And it’s also nice for me to meet you.”

“Huh.” Louis sniffs. It figures. He’d been wondering how his ex could afford Alexandre’s travel and expenses. “You’re a good friend.”

“Merci.” Unlike the last time they met, Alexandre is eager to get down to business. “Now, did you have any questions about the papers? Was everything clear?”

Louis looks up at a flash of blue in front of him. It’s Kacey, grabbing a clean cocktail stirrer. She gives him a friendly smile, but Louis doesn’t continue until she’s down at the other end of the bar.

“It was clear, alright. But, um, unfortunately...due to some unforeseen circumstances...I wasn’t able to complete them. They’re missing one signature.”

Alexandre purses his lips, confused.

“My boyfriend, he just wasn’t comfortable signing,” Louis says lightly. “He doesn’t think our love life is any of Étienne’s business, and, you know what? Neither do I.”

“It’s a shame.”

Louis looks at Alexandre, who’s staring back at him with pity in his eyes.

“It’s a shame that you are with a man who isn’t proud to be with you,” the solicitor continues. “Étienne, now, he was proud. He worships you, monsieur Louis, still. He is so crazy without you.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and then Louis breaks out into peals of cold laughter.

Alexandre clears his throat and looks around, like an embarrassed parent dining with a misbehaving child.

“Of fucking course!” Louis declares. “Of course that’s what this is. How did I not see it?”

“See what, monsieur?

“He really didn’t think...that French phony was so sure that I wouldn’t find someone else that he staked our whole divorce on it. What kind of man does that, Alexandre? Seriously. If he loves me so much, why does he assume I’ll end up alone?”

“You are fighting it, monsieur Louis.” Alexandre lowers his voice, hoping Louis will calm down and follow suit. “Here, you have a boy who won’t claim you. In France, you have your husband, who doesn’t want to let you go unless you are truly happy. Come back with me, eh? Give Étienne another chance.”

The idea is so repellent that Louis rises from his bar stool and backs away a few steps. He won’t fall into this trap, not again. Étienne can have their legal status to keep him warm; he’s certainly not getting Louis back. 

“But I don’t love him,” he contends, his voice thicker and less strong than he’d like. “I don’t think I ever did, I was just...scared.”

“Sorry I’m late.”

Louis frowns, then turns towards the unmistakable, whiskeyed tone of Harry’s voice. 

He stands there before Louis in street clothes, his lips parted and eyes the slightest bit unsure. Louis would give anything to know what he’s thinking, but in a moment, something in Harry’s expression locks and he dives in, taking Louis’ face in his rough hands and kissing him lushly on the mouth.

Louis is so surprised that his eyes don’t slip shut right away. It’s not until the first, brief kiss gives way to a second that he fully surrenders to it – Harry’s lips working against his, soft and strong. 

Everything else melts away: the busy restaurant, the solicitor with his hidden agenda, Louis’ shame. There’s only the way he instinctively clutches at the cotton of Harry’s shirt and a feeling of rightness, totally unlike the one he’d thought he’d felt before.

It lasts for no more than six seconds, but it’s better than a week in Spain with Étienne.

Harry lingers when the kiss breaks, eyes fluttering open slowly and filling Louis’ vision with green, green, green. Then he grazes the tip of Louis’ nose with his index finger, and whatever corners of his consciousness weren’t previously infatuated with Harry Styles finally get the memo. 

He’s still dazed when Harry plants a possessive arm around him and turns them to face the bar.

“You have that paper for me to sign?” he asks Alexandre, still holding Louis tightly to his side.

Alexandre glances from Harry to Louis and back again. Louis weakly attempts to look like a person who hasn’t just experienced a dynamite first kiss – the kind whole coming-of-age movies are written about. 

“There’s no need,” Alexandre says. “I may be a lawyer, but I’m also a Frenchman. I know love when I see it. I will inform Étienne. We will take out this page and execute the agreement without it.”

He gathers his bag, nodding at the pair as he leaves the restaurant.

“Harry, I–”

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry says quietly. 

He attempts to retract his arm from where it rests on Louis’ shoulders. Louis isn’t aware until Harry tugs on it that he’s circled his hand around Harry’s wrist and is resolutely holding on. It takes a few tries before he extricates himself from Louis’ grip, and with one more confusing look, he’s also out the door.

Swooping in with the eleventh hour save – the Harry Styles special. Niall was right, he just can’t resist being the hero. 

Louis knows that he has a tendency to let his fantasies bleed into reality, but is it really possible that Harry walked away from that kiss completely unaffected? It seems like an affront to the rules of physics or romance or something else important to the state of the world. 

He touches his fingers to his lips, and an idea forms.

*****

Louis stays up half the night sifting flour and melting butter and spends the rest of it in an agitated state of not-quite-sleep. When it’s finally a decent hour, he showers, shaves carefully, and barely touches his eyelashes with the Truest Black mascara he saves for special occasions. Out from the closet come his tightest jeans, the ones Étienne forbade him to wear in public unless they were meeting someone he wanted to make jealous, and a semi-sheer Givenchy polo he’d bought on sale. He runs product through his hair, styling it into a quiff with steady hands.

Because now he realizes his mistake. Pretending that he didn’t want Harry hadn’t worked, which only suggests that the opposite strategy might.

Before he heads out the door, Louis retrieves a small, tightly packed plastic container from the kitchen and dons a pair of aviators. 

His commute to Harry’s flat flies by this time, partly because Louis knows where he’s going and partly because he’s anticipating what’ll happen when he gets there. He confirmed through Niall that Harry would almost surely be home, this time holding back no secrets about needing to see him.

When Louis got to the kiss in his recap of the night, Niall’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, and then he poured all three of them a drink.

Now, Louis takes a deep, cleansing breath to gear himself up to press the buzzer, a grin automatically spreading across his face when he hears Harry’s “yeah?”

“It’s Louis. I just wanted to thank you, you know, for last night. Can I come up?”

Harry doesn’t say anything, just grants Louis entrance. 

His heart thumps against his ribcage as he scales the stairs, unsure what mood Harry will be in when he gets there. He’d left so quickly, and Louis has questions. Why _wouldn’t_ Louis have questions? Leaving him alone with them was bad form, now that he thinks of it.

Again the door is open, so Louis just walks in. This time, Harry’s waiting for him in the narrow entryway.

“Hey, listen,” he says, eyes catching on the contents of Louis’ hands. “You didn’t have to...you don’t owe me anything, I mean.”

“ _Harry,”_ Louis scolds, sweeping past him into the kitchen. “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and I think that goes for showing gratitude too.” He swipes a small stack of mail out of the way and deposits the container on Harry’s breakfast bar, then pulls the lid off with a flourish. Just as he’d planned, the mingling scents of sugar, butter, and lemon immediately sweeten the air.

He watches, pleased, as Harry draws nearer and looks down into the batch of perfectly shaped and stacked madeleines.

“You made these?” he asks, disbelieving.

“Yeah. When we were engaged, Étienne thought it would be good if I took a baking class, so I knew how to make his favorites.”

Harry’s brow furrows.

“Turns out I didn’t like baking for _him,_ not for long anyway. But I loved the class, if I’m honest, and I still practice. I was always best at madeleines,” Louis says with pride. “The ingredients are basic, but the balance is difficult to perfect, especially when you’re learning a new oven. You wouldn’t have wanted to see the first few batches I made at Zayn and Niall’s, believe me. But I finally got it. Here, try one.”

Harry reaches into the container and delicately picks up one of the tiny cakes. He glances back at Louis, who smiles encouragingly, and then takes a bite. His expression shifts from surprise to pleasure as he chews.

“Louis, this is really good,” he says gravely after he swallows, holding up the second half as evidence.

“I know, right?” Warmth floods through Louis’ chest at the compliment. 

“You know what would make this even better?”

“No, what?”

“Tea. We need tea. Sit.”

Louis does as he’s told while Harry fills an electric kettle with water from a filtered pitcher, then takes two tea bags from a canister on his counter.

“Was he trying to turn you into a house husband or something?” Harry asks, facing the sink.

“Hm?”

“Your ex. You said the baking class was his idea.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Louis wishes he hadn’t brought it up. He doesn’t like remembering the behavior he used to put up with; it makes him feel like a stranger to himself. “He had some really specific ideas of what married life was going to be like and, as it turns out, most of them involved me waiting on him.”

“What an arsehole,” Harry states, turning back towards him and leaning on the counter. “I’m sorry, I know he was your husband, but what an arsehole.”

“He was,” Louis chuckles softly. “It’s okay, it’s true. You can say it.”

He pauses a moment to organize his thoughts. He has very little love left for Étienne, but the petty joys of bashing his ex usually start mingling with his battered sense of self. People shield their worst qualities and better men have believed bigger lies, but still. If Étienne is an arsehole, what does that make Louis?

“I don’t want you to think I’m this weak person, just because I let him...I kept taking the class for me,” he emphasizes. “I made it mine.”

“I understand,” Harry says evenly. “I do.”

“As for the rest of it…”

“Louis, you left,” Harry interrupts. “You weren’t happy, so you ended it. That takes courage. You don’t have to answer to me about it.”

He turns his back to Louis again to unwrap the tea bags and drop them into two mugs he selects from a small rack. Louis gingerly picks up a madeleine and breaks it slowly in half, admiring the moist, dense texture he achieved. He bites into it, letting the simple, rich flavors overtake his taste buds.

It’s true that they’re his speciality, but there was another reason why they were the first thing that popped into his head when he decided to bake. Kissing Harry reminded him of madeleines. 

“Can I ask you something?” he breaks the surprisingly comfortable silence, prompting Harry to look back at him from where he’s pouring their tea.

“Sure.”

“I just wanted to know...what made you change your mind? Why did you come last night?”

He doesn’t react strongly, just carries the steaming mugs to the table, pondering Louis’ question.

“I dunno. I guess I know what it’s like to feel trapped. Milk and sugar?”

“Oh. Just milk, thanks.”

Harry nods, then doubles back to the fridge to take out a carton.

“I tried to stay angry. But I listened to your message and before I really thought about it, I was texting Niall to find out what time you were meeting that guy.”

“You didn’t tell me you were coming though,” Louis observes as Harry hands him the milk, then takes the seat across from him. “What was that for, the drama?”

That one gets him. Harry wrinkles his nose to mask another reaction – a tell it didn’t take Louis long to catch.

“I don’t think I knew what I was going to do until I did it. Either way, it wasn’t right for you to be there alone.”

“And tonight, the role of the damsel in distress will be played by...,” Louis says under his breath.

“That’s not what I saw,” Harry corrects him. “That’s not what I saw at all. You were refusing to give in to someone who thought he could control you.”

“Oh. Well, okay then,” Louis says, trying to tamp down a growing smile. They both take a sip of their tea at the same time, eyes meeting briefly over the rims of their mugs.

“Wow,” Louis observes, returning his mug to the tabletop. “Who would’ve thought, two years ago: you and I having a cuppa?”

“Not me.” Harry’s laugh is generous, not sharp, and it gives Louis the slack he’s looking for.

“You know, I thought I knew everything when we left school. About life, I mean. And now – I don’t know, I feel younger than ever. Nothing played out like I thought it would. I was wrong about almost everyone.”

“Life is definitely surprising,” Harry responds knowingly.

“It’s kind of exciting though, not knowing what’s gonna happen.” Louis purses his lips in a smile, watching Harry dunk a cake in his tea. “Even though I’m unemployed and divorced. Well, nearly.”

“You can do anything you want now. And you have your friends.”

“Do I?” Louis raises a flirtatious eyebrow. “Well, that’s good to hear.”

But Harry doesn’t volley back, and they fall into another companionable stillness.

Louis has been admiring Harry since he finally started to see him: the tattoos that mark his skin; his long, glorious legs; the dimple that feels like a rare blessing because his full, blinding smiles are so carefully rationed. It’s new, however, that he needs so badly for Harry to think well of him. 

“I’m sorry, again,” he says carefully, gazing into his cup. “That I put you in that position. I feel awful about it.” He looks up at Harry to find his eyes on him, his mouth an indecipherable line. “But there are loads more pastries where these came from, so I can keep making it up to you,” Louis adds to lighten the moment.

“You know...I think you’ve got this idea that you’re this strange person who has to trick people into liking him, but you’re not,” Harry says after a beat. “You’re amazing.”

“I am?” Louis’ cheeks start to burn. “I mean, I knew the first part, but–”

“You’re a fighter, Louis. Anyone who really knows you can see it. I know you’ve dealt with some shit, but I’m glad you’re finally letting people in.”

“Then why did you leave?” Louis challenges. “After the...well, you know, you were there.”

“I was,” Harry says, voice steady.

“Are we just gonna pretend that didn’t happen?”

“It worked. It was convincing. That was the point, wasn’t it?”

Something about his defensiveness tells Louis that he should, in fact, belabor the point.

“Didn’t you...you must have felt _something.”_

“I’m sorry. For me, it was just a kiss. That doesn’t mean that I don’t like you as a person. You _are_ amazing, I mean that. Honestly, I wish I did feel something.”

Louis pushes back from the table and stands, his hands in fists at his sides. “Kiss me.”

Harry stares up at him, puzzled.

“I think there’s something there,” Louis bargains. “And see, the thing is, you surprised me. So you kissed me, but I didn’t kiss you. Kiss me now, and if you really don’t feel it, then I’ll leave you alone. I won’t make you open a jar ever again. Now that’s a deal. Best you’re gonna get.”

The corner of his lips twitch upward when Harry comes to his feet as well. He’s eyeing Louis suspiciously, weighing the terms.

“One kiss.”

“One kiss,” Louis confirms. “Just…”

Harry stays stock still as Louis slowly approaches, gaze flicking from Harry’s eyes to his mouth and back again. At the very last moment before the space between them disappears, Harry darts out his tongue to wet his lips. Louis smiles in triumph, rises to his tiptoes, and then kisses him as tenderly and sweetly as he can.

It’s as light as his mille-feuille and just as delicious. Louis lets his fingers climb up Harry’s biceps, focusing not on his own desire, but on making Harry see how good they could be. 

He breaks it off after a few seconds, determined to play fair. Anyway, what more proof could Harry need? Louis felt the same fire as he did last night, the same sense of coming home. Surely he wasn’t alone in that.

But when he opens his eyes and searches Harry’s face, it’s almost blank. He doesn’t say anything, can’t even directly meet Louis’ gaze. 

Wounded and embarrassed, Louis draws back, releasing his hold on Harry’s arms and calculating how quickly he can get out the door. 

But the second he turns away from Harry, he feels a hand clamp around his wrist.

“Wait.”

Harry gently tugs on it, bringing Louis whirling back and crashing into his chest.

“I just need to see something,” Harry murmurs, his eyes suddenly alight and full of intent. He lifts Louis’ chin with his forefinger, gives him a smirk that makes his heart stutter, then crushes their lips together.

Louis clutches his back and laughs into his mouth, his growing fondness for Harry only dwarfed by his glee at being right.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry had tried to hold his hand the first few times, but found that Louis prefers to stroll with their arms linked, just as they’re doing right now. It felt strangely old-fashioned in the beginning, but Harry’s come to like the way they slot together. More than that, he likes the way Louis smiles up at him, eyes crinkling with pleasure, when Harry offers his arm before they’re even out the door.

The plan today was to have a long, late lunch, after which Louis would walk Harry to the restaurant, where he’d recently been promoted to server, just as Louis had predicted. At exactly four weeks and three days from the morning Louis accosted him with baked goods and a full-frontal charm assault, they’re spending a lot of time together, still easing into whatever this is. Louis doesn't seem to be in any rush to define things, which suits Harry just fine.

Though neither of them has floated a label, Harry has never been one for carrying on more than one relationship at a time. So, after their third date, he told Louis as much, while stressing that he wasn’t pressuring him to stop dating other people if he wanted to. Louis kissed him on the corner of his mouth before he could even finish his sentence and confirmed that they were of the same mind when it came to that.

Fortunately, that’s not the only thing they have in common. Harry didn’t doubt that there was a spark between them – not after Louis called his bluff and proved it – but part of him anticipated that their differences would mount up quickly and snuff it out. Harry’s never left England; he doesn’t see the point of speaking if he doesn’t have anything to say; and Louis was shocked to find that he hadn’t heard all the scandalous details about Prince William’s alleged affair. But Louis also had a far from perfect childhood. He redefined himself to cope with circumstances he didn’t choose. He’s brilliant and sneaky and consistently surprising.

All of that, on some level, Harry had already known. Since they started seeing each other, there have been some new discoveries. For example, when Harry  _ does _ talk, Louis hangs on his words, grateful to hear his thoughts. He doesn’t push Harry to be social when he’d rather just stay in and watch a film. And there seems to be no end to his thoughtfulness. Louis is always texting him articles he might like and delivering contraband sweets to him at work.

They actually make a pretty good team.

“Shall I quiz you on the wine list?” Louis squeezes Harry’s arm with his far hand.

“How, d’you have it memorized or something?” 

“I’ve had a lot of time to study it, waiting for you to get off.”

“Oh really? What’s our most expensive Chilean red?”

“The Carmin de Peumo Carmenere from 2008. Bold and oaky with a hint of black fruit and earthy undertones. One hundred and sixty three pounds for the bottle and worth every bit.” 

“Don’t let Anthony hear you talking like that, or he’ll sack me and give you the job,” Harry teases, finding Louis’ showing off more adorable than he probably should.

“You’re gonna smash it. Everyone adores you there.”

Harry lets the compliment pass without remark, glancing up into the clear fall sky. “What are you going to do the rest of the day?”

“Might head back here, actually. There’s a reading group I’ve been meaning to sign up for: classical philosophy. I’ve been getting a bit rusty, you know. There was a sign in the window last–”

Harry’s suddenly pulled to a stop in front of the Waterstone’s at the corner.

Louis’ eyes are trained on a store employee adjusting one of the dozens of copies of a hardback volume displayed in the bookstore’s window. The cover features a leafy branch bearing one ripe peach against a sage green background, plus the title and author in a large, serifed font:  _ A Season for Peaches,  _ by Étienne Colle. 

“Oh sweet, holy Jesus,” Louis breathes.

“What? Did you miss it?” Harry surveys the display, looking for the problem. “Étienne...isn’t that?”

“My ex-husband wrote that book,” Louis says, devoid of all emotion. He snakes his arm out of Harry’s and draws closer to the glass.

Harry follows closely behind. “ _ A Season for Peaches _ ...what’s it about?”

“It’s about me.  Ma pêche, that’s what he called me.”

“He wrote a book about you? Did you know?”

“He said he was working on it when we were together, but I never thought he’d actually go through with it after we split up.”

“But you didn’t agree to it,” Harry clarifies, his muscles stiffening.

“Didn’t ask me,” Louis says blankly. “Didn’t have to. He changed all the names. He sent me a copy a while back, before you and I...it was in French, I never thought there’d be an English printing.”

As they stand there staring at the display, two women come out of the door, both clutching their copies.

“I’m starting this on the tube,” one says. “I don’t care who sees me.”

“I heard it makes  _ Fifty Shades of Grey  _ look like Dr. Seuss,” her friend adds.

“I heard it’s banned in some countries.”

A third woman approaches and points at the novels they hold against their chests.

“Excuse me, what  _ is  _ that book? I’ve been seeing it everywhere.”

“This older Frenchman seduces a British university student,” the second woman supplies. “It’s like  _ Call Me By Your Name  _ meets  _ The Bridges of Madison County  _ meets...porn.  _ Very  _ hot.”

Harry whirls around to Louis, who looks mortified. 

“It’s explicit, okay?” Louis says once the women are gone, his voice strangled and high. “My husband wrote a sex...memoir about me, and apparently it’s about to be a bestseller.”

Harry could use some time to wrap his head around this, but a very distressed Louis is tracking his reaction.

“Louis, that’s–”

“Harry, please don’t read it,” he lunges forward and takes both of Harry’s hands between his. “Whatever anybody says to you about it, please don’t.”

“I’ve never read a romance novel before,” Harry says calmly.

“I’m shocked,” Louis deadpans, which is a good sign that they’ll be able to joke about this eventually.

“And I’m not going to start now.”

_ “Thank you,”  _ Louis breathes.

“I’m not interested in his version of anything, frankly,” he goes on, becoming angrier on Louis’ behalf. “That’s a violation, Louis, I don’t care that he changed your name. Who does this guy think he is?”

“Slow down, cowboy,” Louis soothes. “No need to start an international incident. It’s disgusting, but it’s fictionalized. That character may be based on me, but he’s  _ not  _ me. Barely anyone here will know the truth. Anyway, he doesn’t deserve any more of our time. Nothing would please him more than getting a rise out of me about this. It’s done, so I’d rather just move on. Please?”

Harry can’t fault his logic. Coming after Étienne legally would mean dragging Louis’ name into public discussion of the book. Still, he can’t imagine how it must feel to have intimate details of your life turned into what the book jacket describes as a “sexual epic.” All he can do is follow Louis’ lead and do what Louis asks him to do: avoid any and all details about what those pages contain.

Harry exhales, letting his shoulders drop. “It’s forgotten.”

*****

Easier promised than done. Harry spends many of the next twenty four hours thinking about  _ A Season for Peaches _ – not because he’s some kind of neanderthal who judges the sexual history of the person he’s dating. He’s just never dated anyone who’s inspired a hit erotic novel before.

He can keep his promise, but he can’t control his curiosity. 

So his mind wanders. 

Harry isn’t a writer. He doesn’t have the words to turn the encounters they’ve shared so far – a few hand jobs, some dry humping, and a  _ lot  _ of snogging – into publishable prose. He just knows that there’s a particular slinky smile of Louis’ that his body is now conditioned to respond to. When they’re in his flat, he usually has about two seconds after he sees it to prepare to be pounced on. He also knows that he’ll be enthusiastically ready for more whenever Louis is.

Louis is an adult and was a married man. Harry couldn’t possibly be scandalized by anything in that book. It’s just that it  _ exists,  _ is the thing. And even though taking legal action wouldn’t be a smart move, he’s a little baffled as to why Louis isn’t more angry about being used like that. 

With Louis at a gallery opening with Zayn the next night, Harry’s on his own after finishing up the day shift. His agenda includes showering off the garlic and parmesan stink and zoning out in front of Netflix. But then he’s passing the same Waterstone’s where Louis first spotted the book and his resolve crumbles. 

A closer look, that’s all he wants. Just to see what’s so special about this genius novelist. And then he’ll go. 

Hating himself already, Harry leans into the doors and enters the surprisingly busy bookshop. 

His eyes dart around the space, clocking the amount of customers who already have their copies of  _ A Season for Peaches _ , some smiling down at the title page. There’s a table right inside the entryway that’s adorned with a dwindling display of Étienne’s novel and Étienne’s novel only. It feels like a weird dream, so Harry almost forgives himself when he can’t stop himself from reaching out and picking one up. 

“Are you here for the signing, sir?” 

Harry turns to his right to find a young man wearing a store name tag addressing him.

“For the what?”

“The author signing. You’re lucky, I think he’s finishing up in the next five minutes or so. You just caught him.”

“Who?”

“Étienne Colle.  _ A Season for Peaches?  _ The book you’re holding, sir.”

Harry looks down at his hands.

Right.

The man with the name tag points out a staircase.

He should text Louis, warn him that his ex is in town promoting his thinly veiled account of their sex life. But how would Harry explain where he was? How he’d found out? And would he lose the chance to see this guy in person? He has to be some piece of work, treating the person he supposedly loved like this. In fact, everything Louis has told Harry about Étienne so far stretches the limits of his understanding. Not that he doesn’t believe Louis’ account…

Still, a tiny, dark part of him is being lured towards the stairs. Just to confirm that a person like this could really be in the world and be so goddamn blatant about it.

One good look at him, and then Harry will leave.

He descends the steps slowly, pushing his guilt down as he goes. When he reaches the event alcove, there are some fans milling around the bookshelves, but just a single person standing in front of the small wooden signing table where the author is set up. 

“You’re my last one,” another employee says with a smile as Harry approaches, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of Étienne. “I was just about to close the line.” She holds out an open hand, the other one wrapped around a mobile card reader. “I can ring you up right here.”

She scans the book’s barcode while he’s still holding it, and Harry looks on helplessly. It’s wrong. It’s so wrong, but what else can he do? Hating himself and already heartily agreeing with whatever Louis has to say about this later, he silently reaches into his back pocket for his wallet and hands the woman his credit card. She turns the reader to him so he can enter his pin, and Harry winces at the twenty pound charge. The receipt prints out noisily, and then the book he’d promised never to read is officially his.

The customer ahead of him floats happily away with his book, blowing on the wet signature, and then Harry is face-to-face with Louis’ infamous ex-husband, who looks much too pleased with himself for Harry’s liking.

He appears to be in his mid-twenties, though with his thin black turtleneck and matching blazer, he’s trying to achieve a more seasoned, literary look. He’s tall and thinner than Harry, with bony wrists and a goatee that says, “The only American literature I acknowledge is  _ On the Road.”  _ Even if Harry knew nothing about him, he hopes that he still would have disliked him on sight. The Frenchman reminds him too much of the politicians’ sons that went to his school, who carried themselves like they were invincible and beyond anyone’s reproach.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” Étienne says with an oily smile. “And to whom should I make it out?”

“Louis,” Harry says without thinking. “Um. Please.”

The novelist flinches, though he tries to cover it up by pretending to stretch his writing hand.

“Oui, of course.” 

Étienne signs the title page in a flowery script, then pushes the book across the table to Harry.

“To Louis,” it says, “with love, from Étienne.” What a prick.

“I hope you enjoy, yes? Maybe there is, uh, a relationship you can ‘spice up,’” Étienne adds, waggling his eyebrows.

Harry attempts a smile that probably turns out more like a scowl. There was a time when he would have invited a bloke this smug to take it outside. But he’s grown up now. Punching people doesn’t solve problems, he’s learned. It just creates more. And he really shouldn’t be here anyway. The last thing he needs is to make a scene.

So he doesn’t say anything, just turns away from the writer at his table and makes for the stairs followed by the exit. 

Harry marches straight home, hustling the unwrapped book into his flat like it’s full of volatile government secrets. He’d considered tossing it into the trash bins alongside the building, but stopped himself, figuring the worst was already done. Granted, he hadn’t meant to be anywhere near Étienne, but he still met Louis’ ex without his permission,  _ lied  _ about who he was, and even added one more sale to the author’s climbing numbers. Keeping the novel seems like a lesser sin.

He tries to ignore it, hiding the book away in the bottom of his almost monochromatic closet – it’s the closest thing he has to a black hole. But it calls out to him when Harry’s soaping up his hair for the second time (the garlic especially clings), salvaging a half-eaten pint of ice cream from his freezer, and scrolling through his streaming options. After about ten tortured minutes of that, he realizes that the idea that anything else could hold his attention with  _ A Season for Peaches  _ sitting just a few meters away was a fantasy.

He could skim it. What’s skimming? It’s not reading. Harmless, is what it is.

Two hours later, he’s almost two hundred pages in. Lee and Emanuel are about to wed at the latter’s family’s chapel in Burgundy, both exhausted and bruised from the previous night’s romp down at the stables. And Louis – the three-dimensional one – is buzzing his door.

Harry starts from where he’s seated sideways on the sofa, bent in half over the novel and swiftly flipping pages. He lets it snap shut when he stands, figuring that losing his place will be the last of his problems if Louis dumps him over this.

“Hey,” he says breathlessly into the intercom. God, it sounds like he was wanking. Which he wasn’t!

“It’s me, did I wake you?” Louis’ carefree voice flies up to him.

“No, come on up.”

Harry holds down the button for a few seconds, then takes stock of his situation, staring at the smoking gun in the middle of his living room.

Again, he battles his instincts, the first of which is to chuck the book out his kitchen window and down into the alley where the rats can have it. 

But that would be even less fair to Louis, who he’d given such a hard time for lying to him. Harry hated being lied to. His father started when Harry was too young to understand it, taking the bills out of his birthday cards from his grandparents “for safekeeping” and telling domestic tales about their home life to his teachers that were so far from the truth, Harry wondered if he was going crazy. He kept at it as Harry grew older, mostly lying about when and in what condition he’d be home.

It was that (and Maura Horan) that kept Harry from falling into a life of petty thievery. Harry had heard enough lies for one lifetime. He’d make sure that only truth would come from his own mouth.

An impossible standard to live up to, obviously. He and Niall sold a lot of white lies in their teen years, but they’d eventually come clean to their parents about their schemes. And he was always able to keep his promise to himself about the big stuff. 

This right here? Counts as big stuff.

Louis comes through the door glowing, his cheeks and the tips of his ears pink from the autumn night time chill. 

“Harry, I wish you could have seen the _work_ tonight,” he buzzes, rising to quickly kiss Harry’s cheek while he unzips his wool bomber jacket. “I didn’t know the artist, but I guess Zayn has a friend of a friend. Anyway, he works in mixed media, mostly what he finds on the street. Clothes, bottles, food wrappers. And then he creates these massive canvases and covers everything with spray paint, the most amazing colors you’ve ever seen. It was really extraordinary. So much emotion!” 

“Sounds great.” Harry takes Louis’ proffered coat and drapes it over a kitchen chair, figuring he’ll be back in it soon anyway.

“Aww, grumpy,” Louis coos, then presents Harry with a small, foil wrapped plate. “It’s not fair that you had to work, so I had the caterer wrap up some things.”

“Lou, you didn’t have to–”

Louis stops him with a finger to his lips. “You’ve got to stop saying that, love. I know I don’t have to.”

“No, really. I don’t deserve it,” Harry protests, helplessly following Louis into the living room.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a couple of salmon toasts and a cold slider.” Louis’ eyes drop to the sofa cushions and Harry braces himself.

“Harry. How did that get here?”

“I may have...I bought it.” Harry takes a step closer, still leaving Louis with plenty of personal space. “It was an accident.”

“An accident, interesting,” Louis says icily. “Well, I’d love to hear the story of how  _ that  _ happens, if you have the time.”

“He was there.”

“Who was there?”

“Your ex,” Harry edges around Louis and slides the book out of the way, then attempts to subtly position it behind his back. “He was signing books at Waterstone’s.”

“If you’re subscribed to his newsletter, now would be a good time to tell me.”

“No.” Harry motions for Louis to sit, which he does warily, then claims the chair that puts the corner of his coffee table between them. “No. I walked in – I don’t know why, I just did – and someone said so, and I only wanted to see him, but they made me buy the book first. It happened really fast and I didn’t tell him who I was.” Louis’ expression doesn’t change. Harry pauses. “You’re not surprised.”

“He texted me this morning when he got in.” 

Harry sits up taller in his chair, a familiar flood of protective adrenaline hitting just so.

“I didn’t answer, and I don’t think you have a thing to say about it anyway right now, do you?” Louis says pointedly, reading his body language.

“No,” Harry sighs, chastised. “Of course not.”

“Well, then. I’m not happy about it, but I suppose I owe you some forgiveness after what you did for me. Now we’re even.”

Sometimes Louis’ moods change so quickly, Harry can barely keep up. For someone who still struggles to identify his own emotions – let alone express them – his adaptability is downright aspirational.

He should take Louis’ free pass to move past this. It’s more grace than his behavior is worthy of, but, he supposes, Louis has pulled off his share of schemes. Only...if he does, the little gnawing thought he’s harboring now will just get bigger and possibly destructive.

“What’s wrong?” Louis asks when Harry doesn’t immediately join him on the sofa and turn on the TV.

“I think,” Harry says carefully, “I may be more freaked out about this than I initially said.”

“Oh god, you read it.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I promised you and I broke your trust–”

“And now you think I’m some naive, slutty twink who gave it all away for an accent!” Louis plows on.

“I don’t think that. I don’t even know what that  _ means.” _

“You know, he made half of it up,” Louis continues, as though he didn’t even hear Harry speak. “I wasn’t even a virgin when we met, but I guess that doesn’t sell books. I’ve also never had a threesome with a ‘hot French-American actor’; we had drinks with  Timothée Chalamet  _ one time _ .  And that thing on page one hundred and thirty six?  Harry, even if I was that limber, you know I would never do that in the Chunnel.”

“Lou, please just slow down and listen to me. I don’t care about the Chunnel. I don’t care about any of that.”

“Right. Sure.” 

_ “Really. _ I don’t.” Harry moves over to perch on the edge of the sofa so he can look Louis right in the face and prove to him that he’s serious. “And I realize that this is ironic coming from me after what I did, but what you choose to do with your body is your business. It doesn’t change how I see you. Not at all.”

“Okay,” Louis prompts him, cautiously. “That’s good.”

Articulating what’s bothering Harry seems impossible, especially so early in a relationship that’s been moving at a leisurely pace. A pace that, until tonight, had felt right and fine.

“It’s embarrassing,” Harry mumbles.

Louis gives him an “are you having me on” look. “Probably not as embarrassing as getting caught coming out of a custodian’s closet at the Louvre by a primary school field trip. That part’s true, by the way.”

He reaches for one of Harry’s hands and holds it lightly, encouraging him to speak.

“He wrote a whole romance novel about you,” Harry says, dropping his eyes to their fingers. “There’s some pretty serious stuff in here. Epic love kind of stuff.”

It was that and not the near-public trysts and marathon love making that had kept him reading all evening. Lee and Emanuel had barely met before they were pledging to make great sacrifices for one another and bandying about words like “soulmate” and “forever.” And while he and Louis got off to a pretty interesting start, their casual exploration of their own chemistry seems insignificant and routine in comparison. 

“Yeah, so?” Louis squeezes Harry’s hand, then favors him with a reassuring smile. “Look. I’m not gonna tell you that it wasn’t sexy or exciting. Because it was. And then we flamed out. He showed his true colors, and I never looked back, Harry.” He leans in and his focus intensifies. “I’m only looking right in front of me.”

“He’s nothing like me,” Harry uselessly adds, stubbornly trying to resist falling into those persuasive pools of blue. 

“And thank god for that. Come on, now, love.”

Louis plants his hands on Harry’s shoulders and gently manhandles him back into the cushions. Harry lets himself be positioned and Louis hums, satisfied, when he relaxes into the spot. Once Harry’s firmly settled, Louis scooches back into him, burrowing into his side. For the final touch, he lifts up Harry’s arm and drapes it around him.

He smells nice – like French cologne and whatever he got up to in the kitchen today – and Harry reflects, not for the first time, on how unafraid Louis is to just lead Harry wherever he wants him to go.

“You have to remember that this book is just Étienne rewriting the past,” Louis continues, voice soft and raspy. “He didn’t like what actually happened, so he replaced it with this false memory where he was the spurned romantic hero and I was the lost love who flew away. But that’s not the truth. I left for real reasons; good ones. And there’s nothing left back there for me. He can have his delusions and his fans, but he doesn’t get to have  _ you,  _ Harry. Don’t get caught up in his story.”

They sit together in silence for a few moments, Harry absentmindedly stroking Louis’ arm and reflecting on his rather convincing point. The peace is broken by a gasp that makes Harry start.

“I have an idea,” Louis declares, turning his body into him. “And it’s brilliant, of course. Let me see if Étienne is staying in London a little longer. Then the three of us can go to dinner and you’ll see for yourself what a jackass he is and how completely over him I am.”

Harry can only stare at him. He’s never heard a worse idea in his life, and he’s counting the time Niall jumped onto the school coffee cart to publicly profess his love for Zayn, then promptly fell off and broke his wrist. At least Zayn had agreed to go out with him after he got back from hospital. This scheme seems less likely to produce a positive result.

“I don’t want to put you through that,” he hedges. 

“Nonsense. Because it goes both ways. That arrogant bastard, he really believed I’d never move on. And now I’m with this sweet, clever, wonderful boy.” Louis traps the tip of his tongue between his teeth as he shamelessly checks Harry out. “And fit – I did mention fit, yeah?” he adds, with an air of false innocence. “I want to show you off. Can you blame me?”

“If that’s really what you want,” Harry manages to get out. “Then...okay.”

“Good, I’m glad that’s settled.” Louis slides a thigh across Harry’s lap until he’s straddling him. “Because right now, I happen to find you quite sexy and exciting. And I’d like to show you how much. Can I do that for you, love?”

“Absolutely,” Harry murmurs, bringing his hands to Louis’ waist. 

Louis wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and crashes their lips together, all the tension from the day turning into fireworks. It feels different instantly; Harry slides his palms up underneath Louis’ shirt as he grinds down onto him, their tongues meeting sloppily.

In the book, Lee is a blank slate that Emanuel projects onto and a virginal waif whose sexuality is encouraged – and therefore owned – by the older man. For that reason, Harry hadn’t found it all that titillating. It certainly wasn’t true to the Louis perched atop him right now, who’s never been shy when it comes to getting what he wants.

Louis separates their mouths with a wet pop, his neck flushed and lips already swollen from Harry’s two day’s worth of stubble. “You really don’t think I’m a whore?”

“God, no. Of course not.”

“Good. Because I’m not,” Louis says firmly. Then his expression shifts, as if he’s just been possessed by a sinful thought. Holding eye contact, he reaches behind him and takes hold of Harry’s hands, guiding them down his body until they’re cupping his perfectly remarkable arse. “Unless you want me to be,” he purrs, arching an eyebrow.

Challenge accepted.

Harry stands up without warning, causing Louis to shriek happily and lock his ankles at Harry’s lower back. He walks them into the wall and then the door jamb, but it’s really not his fault, since Louis won’t stop kissing him for two consecutive seconds.

For the next sweaty hour, there are no thoughts of cheesy literary sex or French writers. In fact, there are very few thoughts at all besides how tight and lovely Louis feels and how devastating Harry’s name sounds on his lips when he comes. 

*****

“Bonjour, Étienne,” Louis says smoothly as he and Harry approach their table. “You look well.”

Étienne has manners when he chooses to, Harry notes. The Frenchman stands to greet them, though his focus is solely on Louis at first. He kisses him on both cheeks, then, as an afterthought, presents his hand for Harry to shake.

He squints, still holding on. “We have met, yes?”

Harry opens his mouth to answer, but Louis chimes in.

“Don’t be silly. Wherever would you have met?”

Harry squeezes Louis’ hand in silent, secret thanks. 

Étienne frowns at his mistake, then shrugs it off entirely, as if the question had never even crossed his mind.

Something about him makes absolute sense to Harry in that moment. Étienne can cast off any thought or impression that doesn’t suit him.

“Harry Styles. Pleasure.”

He can do manners too.

“It is all mine, ‘arry.” Étienne pulls out the chair next to him, and it’s obvious who he intends it for. “I was so glad to hear from Louis. Above all, it is my wish that we can all be friends.”

Harry finds that difficult to believe, but if Louis wants closure, he’ll do his best to sit quietly by as he gets it.

He’s always been better at doing things than saying them anyway. He got another reminder of that this morning, when he woke up to Louis’ parted lips on his bare back and shallow, even puffs of breath tickling his shoulder. Harry was barely conscious at that point, yet the swell of feeling that it led to frightened him. So he laid perfectly still until his muscles cramped, knowing that moving and waking Louis would mean either giving that feeling a voice or letting it go ignored. Neither seemed like a very good option.

When Louis awakened on his own, he hugged Harry to him and sighed in contentment. Harry envied his openness, and – like a coward – immediately suggested breakfast.

“...I’ll be back in a moment for your drink orders,” the waiter is saying when Harry reenters the conversation.

He looks down at the table for a drink menu, then finds that the wine list is already in Étienne’s hands. One might think that the novelist would leave that choice to the one person at the table who actually works in a restaurant, or at least consult him, but it appears that he’ll be selecting all by himself.

“This is a nice place,” Louis says, looking around the dimly lit restaurant and then smiling at Harry to solicit his agreement. “It reminds me of that little bistro–”

“In Canal St. Martin,” Étienne says, snapping the wine list shut. “Oui, with the–”

“Duck confit that would just melt in your mouth. And the waiter who was sure you were his cousin’s brother-in-law.”

“Why would I correct him? He did not charge us the full price.” Étienne chuckles, then notices Harry, who surely must look as uncomfortable as he feels. “ Je suis désolé, I am sorry, ‘arry.” Harry doesn’t care for his pitying look. “But it has been so long since I have seen Louis. And you are familiar, already, with his charms.”

He refuses to be baited. Not at these prices.

“How are you enjoying London?” he asks, placing a grounding hand on Louis’ knee under the table.

“I am sorry to say I am a little, uh, homesick?” Étienne simpers. “The book is doing so well, my publisher wants the tour to keep going, but I confess, I am quite eager to return to Paris.”

“All you’ve done is work. You’ve barely gotten to see the city,” Louis protests, his desire to at least politely defend his home palpable to Harry, if not his ex-husband.

“Maybe you are right. If only I were here for longer, you and ‘arry could show me the sights. I am sure your London is much more glamorous than mine.”

He doesn’t sound very sure at all, but the waiter has returned to their table to collect their order. Just as Harry suspected, Étienne orders a bottle of wine without running his choice by either of his dining companions. With Louis, it’s possible that Étienne knows what he likes. But his arrogance won’t allow for Louis to stretch his wings or change his mind or even just affirm Étienne’s assumption. 

Louis smiles wanly at the waiter, and Harry reconsiders his personal ban on fistfights. 

“You must be very happy that your book is so successful,” Louis says graciously.

“Oui, though I hope it does not offend you. It was meant as an honor. A tribute.”

Harry almost scoffs at the too-little/too-late apology, and the way Étienne’s performative remorse doesn’t reach his eyes. But fighting Louis’ battles for him would be just as patronizing. Anyway, he’s well-equipped to handle them himself.

“Either way, it’s too late for me to object, isn’t it?” Louis is smiling, but the overall effect is acidic.

Étienne opens his palms and tips his head, granting Louis the point.

It’s a turn in the evening. Once the elephant in the room has been shot and stuffed, they ease into friendlier – but still surface-level – conversation. Well, Louis and Étienne do. Harry picks at his coq au vin and listens as Louis asks questions about their acquaintances back in Paris and Étienne tells stories (that are surely meant to be funny, but just come off as mean) about their dramatic, tone-deaf neighbor who longed to be an opera singer.

At first, it’s a relief. Harry loathes small talk and would never object to being left out of it. But then the wholeness that he felt when Louis clinged to him in his sleep resurfaces, and Harry is no longer grateful to be ignored.

“No one tells you how lonely these book tours are,” Étienne complains, waving around a piece of rare steak on his fork. “There’s no discussion, no sharing ideas. I am becoming dull, I can feel it.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Louis argues politely.

“With our little salons, I was challenged. Now all I do is say ‘bonjour’ and write my name.”

Louis turns to Harry and explains, “Étienne and I used to host these little parties at our flat. All artists and thinkers and musicians. We drank wine and smoked pot and talked about what we could do to make the world more beautiful and interesting.

“You would have loved it, ‘arry, I am sure,” says Étienne, who hasn’t asked Harry a single question about himself all night.

Louis gasps. “Do you remember when that tiny woman from the  _ Literary Review _ went into a rage about Verlaine?”

“I did not know it was possible to be this angry about nineteenth century poetry.”

“I thought she was going to scream the house down. And no one was even arguing with her!”

Harry certainly wouldn’t have. He has no idea who Verlaine is.

Still laughing at the memory, Louis excuses himself to go to the toilet, patting Harry’s thigh in solidarity before he goes.

“I’m sorry if we are boring you with these old stories,” Étienne offers after he watches Louis disappear into the hallway behind them.

“No, please. It’s fine,” Harry responds tightly. “I’m here for Louis.”

“Of course you are,” Étienne condescends. “It is a shame we were not friends in Paris, you know. You would have been a welcome guest. Louis tells me that your observations on Hume are quite fascinating.”

Harry stops trying to spear a wayward onion when he hears the secondhand lie.

“He does?”

“Oui. I would like very much to read your dissertation when you are finished, if you would be so kind.”

Moving amongst classes as he has left Harry pretty unimpressed by status and credentials. Honest work done well means more to him than a title or connections. Maura’s degree wouldn’t mean a thing if she didn’t use it the way she does. He did alright in school, but uni wasn’t for him – not right away at least. His adolescence was a little too chaotic; Harry still felt like he was wading through it, settling himself. Making that choice didn’t make him feel inferior. 

But apparently, it embarrasses Louis.

“I’ll definitely think about it,” he replies in a measured tone. 

“What did I miss?” Louis drops back into his seat a strained minute later, followed by a wave of orange and vanilla – complimentary hand cream in the toilets, then. It’s that kind of place.

“Nothing important,” Harry assures him with a small, pathetic smile.

Étienne and Louis pick up where they left off, and Harry is even less inclined to try to participate than before. 

He’s the recipient of several concerned looks, but he parries each one until Louis finally gives up.

At the end of the meal, Étienne makes a big fuss about picking up the bill and expensing it to his publisher. Harry and Louis thank him, though probably not as profusely as he’d hoped. 

Louis lets out a long groan when they’ve rounded the corner outside the restaurant and are finally out of earshot.

“That was exhausting. I’m exhausted.”

“Really? Seemed like you, I dunno, had an alright time.”

“It wasn’t exactly torture, but you see how he is. Center of attention, always. Needs a lot of petting.”

Louis curls his arm through Harry’s, but Harry doesn’t automatically pull him in, as he usually does. He doesn’t really see how “petting” Étienne falls to Louis these days.

“Your night was crap,” Louis continues, sounding contrite. “Don’t have to say so, I know it.”

Harry sniffs. “Food wasn’t bad. I’m just curious as to why you told your ex-husband I’m a Hume scholar.”

“What?” Louis laughs tightly, eyes darting away.

“Don’t–don’t make it worse. He said you told him my observations were…‘fascinating,’ I believe was the word. He really wants to read my dissertation sometime, so I guess I should be flattered. He’s a published fucking author, after all.”

“It’s not what it sounds like, Harry, I promise–”

“I know I haven’t been to a  _ salon  _ with  _ Verlaine  _ lately,” Harry interrupts sourly.

“Well, that wouldn’t be possible anyway,” Louis reasons. “He’s actually been dead for quite some time.”

“Oh my god, Louis, I was joking.”

“Hey.” Louis slides his hand down Harry’s arm until they’re palm-to-palm and stops walking, pulling Harry to face him. “You are wonderful and clever. I don’t give a shit what you’ve read or haven’t.”

“Then why lie to  _ him _ , of all people? Unless that’s just how you introduce me now.”

“No, of course not,” Louis sighs. “It’s complicated, with Étienne.”

“How is it complicated? After what he did to you, why is his opinion so bloody important?”

“Because fuck him!” Louis declares in glee and exasperation. “I know how he is, and I knew he would judge you. I knew he would, Harry, because he has terrible taste in friends and he doesn’t know you like I do. He’s obsessed with all of that shit, and I couldn’t watch him look down on you. You don’t deserve that.”

“Oh, but this – this is fine?” Harry gestures at the sidewalk, at them quarreling in front of a Sainsbury’s instead of rushing back home to actually enjoy being a couple who just started to have sex.

“No, I just...it was one dinner. We’ll never have to see him again.” Louis grasps Harry’s other hand too, holding them between their bodies. “Please, let’s just go back and get out of these clothes and–”

“I think you should sleep at your flat tonight.”

Louis searches Harry’s face, lips curled in an incredulous half smile. “Are you being serious?”

“I need some space.” Harry gently extricates himself from Louis’ surprisingly strong grip. “For now. Please.”

“O-okay.” Louis tentatively takes half a step back as though he’s still processing Harry’s request. “Of course, if that’s what you want. But I want you to promise me...promise me we’ll talk all of this out tomorrow.”

Harry puts his hands on his hips and stares into the fluorescent brightness of the shop.

“Harry, please. I’m so sorry, I was only trying to spare you this.”

There are spots in front of Louis’ face when Harry looks back at him; little explosions of light dotting his skin. 

Maybe he wouldn’t be so upset about what Louis did if he didn’t so completely understand why he did it.

Harry comes closer and, avoiding the hope that appears in Louis’ eyes, bends down to give him a dry kiss on the forehead.

“Good night, Lou,” he says quietly, then goes home alone.

*****

His next shift crawls by.

Harry polishes glasses and memorizes the specials, but there isn’t enough activity in the restaurant to prevent him from going back over the previous evening in his mind, again and again.

That only confuses him more. He’s always been a live-in-the-moment kind of person, and he’s never lost sleep over a guy. But it seems that with this, as with so many other things, Louis is the exception.

His pride was wounded when Étienne let Louis’ lie slip, that’s for certain. But Harry also believed Louis when he explained his reasoning for spinning the fiction. He looked too upset for him not to. 

What gnaws at him is that Louis’ story wasn’t a spur of the moment decision. He planned what he would say, sure that he’d need to rationalize Harry’s presence in his life to Étienne. And maybe that was a judgment on his ex too, but it stung that Louis still thought about him, still tried to predict his reaction. 

What he’d failed to realize is that Harry couldn’t possibly care less whether Étienne approves of him or not. Louis’ opinion is the one that matters.

And Louis’ opinion was the one that was exposed.

He wants to wish that the Frenchman never existed, so that this phantom third wheel would disappear, and the two of them could just figure things out on their own.

But if Louis hadn’t had his heart broken by someone, he might’ve stayed in Paris forever. And Harry wouldn’t have gotten the chance to get close to the most perplexing, unusual, and annoyingly lovable person he’s ever met.

Louis’ life is complicated, and Harry knows all about that. As much as he’d sometimes like to forget his own past completely, it’s shown up at his door more than once. And in those moments, there’s nothing to do but face it. 

He checks his phone during closing and is briefly taken aback when he sees that Louis hasn’t called or even texted.

Then he very nearly smiles at the lack of notifications. He  _ did  _ ask for space. Knowing Louis’ addiction to throwing himself into fixing anything that’s broken, that took some willpower and respect for Harry’s wishes.

The restaurant gets quieter and quieter as staffers complete their duties and leave for the evening, until the only noise is the occasional clatter from the bussers finishing up in the kitchen. With the light cut down to a hazy, golden glow emitting from a single bulb, Harry stands at the bar and counts out his tips. 

As he lays out the notes, he rolls his neck around on his shoulders, clockwise and then counter-clockwise, groaning loudly when he hears a satisfying pop. Kacey had warned him early on what being on his feet for six hours at a time would do to him, swearing that she’d aged ten years in her two on the job. When Harry told her that she was a vision and then protested that he was “in pretty good shape,” she laughed, full-throated and actually, kind of rude.

Now he understands.

Harry’s calves ache. There’s a twinge in his lower back that seems to have fully moved in. Even the crown of his head hurts.

Sleep. He needs sleep.

If only to get himself through the walk to his flat, Harry starts to picture it: his bed.

Maura had insisted on a top-shelf mattress; no son of hers would suffer the wide-ranging effects of sub-par sleep. So Harry didn’t skimp on the pillows either, investing in those firm ones for side-sleepers, with a few fluffier options to curl around. Desperate for rest, he imagines crawling into that bed, immensely grateful to his past self for laundering his sheets and duvet cover this week and for the lavender fabric softener that sends him under almost instantly.

Then his imagination starts to get away from him, tracing the outline of Louis’ curves under the covers, his limbs heavy in sleep.

For so long, he’d thought of Louis as this nonstop fount of energy – always chasing the next thing, working a new angle. He still talks a mile a minute and buzzes around Harry’s flat, flitting from subject to subject. And Harry wouldn’t have it any other way. But lately, he’s been noticing more frequent periods of peace: Louis sitting behind Harry on the sofa, calmly playing with his hair; Louis reading a book on the floor while Harry prepares their tea; and that most unguarded state: Louis completely at rest, mouth slack and forehead smooth, his arm thrown across Harry’s middle.

It didn’t dawn on Harry right away, but eventually he worked it out.

Louis was comfortable with him. Louis trusted Harry with a version of himself that wasn’t intended for anyone’s consumption.

And Harry is tired. His soul hurts from being polite to rude diners. His body hurts from the rest of it.

He’s too exhausted, in fact, to be angry with Louis.

“Oh. Hi,” an equally sleepy Louis says, opening the door to him twenty minutes later.

He’s ready for bed – maybe came from it, actually – clad in a baggy, grey t-shirt and black lounge shorts that don’t hide much of his shapely thighs. And he doesn’t try to hide his surprise at finding Harry at his flat unannounced after a day of not communicating, the obvious question evident in his expression.

“Hi,” Harry says, leaning on the door frame because he can’t seem to stand up straight. “Is it okay that I’m here?”

“Yeah.” Louis steps back and holds the door open wider. “Yeah, of course.”

Zayn and Niall are likely already asleep in their room on the other side of the flat, so Louis leads Harry into his and shuts them in. The bed is still made, Harry notices with a splash of relief.

He turns from the bed to see Louis standing just inside the room, visibly unsure and waiting for him to speak.

“It’s late. I don’t want to talk tonight, but I just…” Harry lifts an open hand and lets it hang in the air, along with his unfinished thought.

“Haz, it’s okay.” Louis approaches him cautiously, and Harry’s eyes drop momentarily to his bare feet against the hardwood. “I missed you too.”

“If we could just sleep,” Harry says, swaying into the hand Louis has placed on the side of his neck, his muscles already loosening. “I would really like that.”

“I’d like that too.” Louis moves in to put his arms around him, and it reminds Harry of the state he’s in.

“Wait, sorry,” he confesses, stepping backwards. Just like always, Louis smells too good to sacrifice to the overwhelming odor of Silvio's. “I came straight here, I didn’t...Is it alright if I take a shower?”

“Be my guest,” Louis smiles almost shyly, gesturing to the en suite. “I think I have some shorts that’ll fit you.”

Harry’s eyes flick down to Louis’ bare legs and then back to his face. “Somehow, I doubt it,” he says with a gentle smirk.

“Well, either way,” Louis teases back.

The water is hot, and the pressure is perfect. Harry stands motionless under the spray for at least a minute, letting the steam rise around him and the day slide off of him in rivulets.

When he starts to look around, he finds that, naturally, the shower is spotless and tidy, with Louis’ products neatly displayed on its molded shelves. 

Harry finds the shampoo, flicks the top open, and sniffs it: coconut laced with something floral, though not quite as appealing without the metallic and distinctly masculine scent of Louis’ skin underneath it. He uses it anyway, along with the matching conditioner, then lathers up his body with a pleasantly scratchy bar of oatmeal soap.

He tries to think – to ask himself what he’s hoping for here – but in his fatigue, no coherent answer comes. All Harry can manage to do now is to move from sensation to sensation, from the cooling water to the fat, expensive towel waiting for him on the rack; from the smooth, chilly tile to the shaggy bath mat that twists between his toes.

There’s no noise coming from the other room when he shuts off the water. He can picture Louis waiting for him in bed, sitting up against the headboard with his glasses on, reading some depressing Russian tome. Harry hasn’t told him yet how sexy he looks in them – like a film star playing a professor who’s an international spy on the side. And he won’t tell him tonight either, though the thought does speed up the rest of his routine. Harry steals some moisturizer and body lotion – coming in and out of the kitchen all day has done a number on his skin – then blows the damp out of his hair.

There’s a soft knock at the door when he turns off the dryer, and he opens it to Louis holding out a small stack of clothes. That Harry only feels a distant urge to slide his glasses off of his nose and kiss the timid look off of his face either speaks to how tired or how confused he is. Probably both.

“I didn’t know how comfortable you’d be, so I brought...” Louis trails off. “Wear whatever you want, obviously.”

Harry thanks him, and doesn’t bother closing the door again. He steps into the navy pair of boxer-briefs with a worn-out elastic band and pulls them up under the towel around his waist. A little more snug than he’s used to, but they’ll do for the night. He discards the shirt Louis brought him, opting just for the grey sweatshorts at the bottom of the pile, which must reach Louis’ knees but hit him about a few inches above his, the raw edges curling up. With one more look in the mirror, his face tinged pink from the heat, Harry pads back into the bedroom, which is now illuminated only by Louis’ reading light. 

“Feel better?” Louis puts his (enormous) book down on the nightstand and places his glasses on top of it. It’s quite domestic, and something like yearning passes through Harry.

“Much, thank you.” 

“You can come over, you know. Anytime.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that, not just now, so he pulls back the covers on the other side of the bed.

“Can I get you anything? Glass of water?” 

“No, stay,” Harry says quickly, made anxious by Louis’ one foot on the floor. “I’m good. Please stay.”

The corner of Louis’ mouth draws upwards as he watches Harry settle in. “Okay, then.”

Louis flicks off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Then he shifts closer, the rustling of the bedding unspeakably loud in the quiet of the flat.

Harry turns on his side, letting Louis back up into him. The breath he lets out when the lengths of their bodies are aligned would be embarrassing if he hadn’t been looking forward to this exact moment since he decided to come here tonight. Louis shimmies his body a little to get comfortable and takes the hand that’s resting on his chest. There’s no fire where their bare skin touches, but there’s always the promise of it. Harry hooks his chin over Louis’ shoulder and feels a rush of relief followed by the stab of guilt. 

It’s probably unfair that he’s indulging himself like this when there’s so much unresolved between them. Louis’ lie digs into him for reasons he hasn’t been able to unpack.

But he’s a weak man and holding Louis is the first good thing to happen to him all day.

So Harry lets himself do it, and – almost immediately – his brain quiets. His pulse slows, and his eyelids grow heavy.

Just before he drops off, he hears Louis hum happily and murmur a goodnight, and Harry knows that he’s made a mistake.

*****

“Mate.”

Harry almost drops the carbonara the chef packed up for him when Zayn steps out of the shadows just outside the restaurant, like a bookie come to collect.

“Fuck me, where’d you come from?”

Zayn smiles enigmatically, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket. “I was just out, wasn’t I?”

“And you thought you’d come by and scare me to death? If Niall wants my cut of the inheritance that badly, he can have it.”

“Sorry about that.” Zayn runs a hand through his hair, then points behind him with his thumb. “No, I thought I’d walk you home. Catch up. How was work tonight?”

Harry looks at him sideways as they start towards the corner. “This isn’t necessary. In fact, it’s actually none of your business. Did my brother send you?”

“It’s been two weeks, Haz. Louis hasn’t heard from you. You’re avoiding our flat, ignoring his calls. Yeah, your brother did ask me to try and talk some sense into you. _ I _ , on the other hand, proposed we take you off the New Year’s card list and be done with it.”

Harry purses his lips and looks away. He had thought Niall had been suspiciously quiet on the subject. 

“I thought you had something there,” Zayn breaks through his reverie.

“Then we were both wrong,” Harry says plainly.

“You know, everyone thinks you’re this tough bloke,” Zayn continues, voice growing stronger and more indignant. “‘Don’t fuck with Harry Styles’ and all that. But as soon as things get real for  _ you, _ you run away.”

“I do not  _ run–” _

“Then what d’you call this? Louis woke up that morning, and you were already gone. Nothing since. You can pretend he doesn’t exist, but I can assure you that he does. There’s enough pastry in my flat to run a bake sale. If he makes me watch one more black-and-white movie that ends with some lady dying of a broken heart, I swear, I’m evicting him, and your brother won’t be able to stop me.”

For as hard as Harry’s been trying to avoid imagining what Louis is feeling and doing, the picture Zayn paints is the same one that’s been frequently popping into his head without his consent. It’s only temporary, he tells himself when it does, and again now. Louis will get over him, and everything will be fine. It’s for the best.

“You don’t know, okay?” he defends himself to Zayn. “I know what it looks like, but...look, I would never try to explain your relationship to you. That’s not fair.”

“So he made up some story, right?” Zayn sounds and looks unimpressed. “For the ex.”

Harry ducks his chin, because  _ some people _ – not everyone – but some people might think that’s a pretty lame reason to break up with someone. “Yeah. I mean, there’s more, but yeah.”

“Didn’t you read that sex book when he explicitly asked you not to?”

“Hey, I apologized for that,” Harry argues weakly.

They stroll quietly for a few moments, but Harry can sense that Zayn’s not finished with him. Aside from Louis, he was probably the most headstrong person in their school. If Zayn wanted something, he didn’t let it go until he’d wrestled it into submission. Harry had been on the other end of his iron will before and never won.

“He’s been calling again,” Zayn says clearly as they stop to let a man with a stroller cross in front of them.

“Who?” Harry asks, already knowing the answer.

“You  _ know _ who. Louis has even picked up a couple of times.”

Harry laughs bitterly into the night.

“That’s his decision, innit?” Zayn says, fixing him with a judgmental stare. “He’s not dating you anymore, apparently.”

“It’s just...it figures,” Harry says, feeling vindicated. Funny, he thought that having his assumption confirmed would make him lighter somehow. But he can’t find any real joy in it. “It was never gonna work out.”

“That your grand plan? You ghost him and push him into the arms of his ex-husband just so you can tell yourself you were right? Regular genius, you are.”

“He doesn’t want to be with  _ me.  _ Maybe he thought he did for a while, but come on,” Harry says hotly.

Zayn halts again, facing Harry with his arms crossed in front of his chest and one dark eyebrow lost under a swoop of glossy hair.

“Ask me about the Enlightenment,” Harry dares. “Go ahead. Ask me for one _ single _ opinion about the Enlightenment. I don’t have one. It happened – well done – but  _ I’ve  _ pretty much moved on. I also don’t have any  _ great minds _ to invite over to burn incense and snort absinthe and make over the world or what the fuck ever.”

“Has he ever asked you for any of those things?”

“No, but–”

“Does it bother you that he’s not into FIFA or cage fighting or whatever it is you get up to these days?”

“ _ No,  _ but–”

“He was trying to look out for you,” Zayn interrupts again, firmly. “Wasn’t the smartest way to go about it, but I know Louis too, and I believe that his intentions were good. I live with the guy, Harry. We’re the ones he talks to about you. You’re acting like you just crawled out of the primordial ooze, meanwhile, he thinks – well, he thought – that you hung the bloody moon. He doesn’t want you to be anyone other than who you are.”

“He’ll realize it, though,” Harry argues stubbornly. “He would’ve gotten bored, sooner or later.”

Zayn looks up at the starless sky, directing a “Why do I bother?” to an unseen sponsor, then back at Harry. “It’s like you haven’t even noticed the way he looks at you.”

Then, an exasperated sigh that makes Harry shift his weight in embarrassment.

“He left Étienne and came back home because he  _ wasn’t happy.  _ I don’t know why you’re so worried that he’d rather go back to a life that he already rejected. But he’s vulnerable right now – worse than he was when he first moved in, I can tell you that. And that French twat’s gonna take advantage of it. It won’t last, and he’ll regret it, but between you and me, I don’t think Louis has felt loved for much of his life. And if I were him, I’d have a hard time turning away from a person who was offering it.”

He closes the gap between him and Harry, clapping him on the shoulder and shaking him a little.

“I know you care about him. You wouldn’t be pulling this martyr act if you didn’t.” 

“I don’t know what to do,” Harry admits after a beat.

“God, you’re hopeless,” Zayn says, smiling slightly. “Why don’t you tell those abandonment issues you’re so proud of to fuck off, and then see how you feel?”

*****

Harry paces around his flat with his phone in his hand for a good half hour the next morning. Sleeping had proved impossible after Zayn deposited him at his doorstep and rushed back home to debrief Niall.

When put in the simplest terms, Harry’s method for “letting Louis go” didn’t only seem cruel but also disingenuous. His reluctance to step away was selfish, he’d convinced himself. He was only doing the right thing – splintering his own heart before he could break Louis’.

Staring up at his ceiling last night, his covers kicked down to his feet, Harry saw that story for the bullshit that it was.

It was his own fault for running back into Louis’ arms before they could process that disastrous dinner, when Louis seemed to believe that Harry’s presence meant that things were fine, while all that Harry could see in front of them were endless tests – similar moments when Louis would be forced to rationalize him.

He freaked out. Suddenly the magnitude of his growing feelings for Louis matched the size of the gulf between them, and he didn’t know how to handle it. 

Zayn was right. There was nothing brave about it.

Calling Louis after disappearing for two weeks, however, will take all the courage he has.

Four rings pass before he finally picks up, his “yes?” proper and distant. It’s more than Harry deserves.

Truthfully, the only bit of Zayn’s story that Harry didn’t buy was that Louis wanted to hear from him at all.

“Lou, hi. I’m–” Harry falters, thrown by the voice at the other end of the line. “Thanks for picking up.”

“Is there something you need?” 

“Yes. No. I mean...fuck, this is awkward.”

“Mmm,” Louis hums. “Whose fault is that, I wonder?”

“...I don’t even know what to say.”

“‘I’m sorry’ would be a start.”

“It’s not enough,” Harry says darkly.

“No, it’s not. I live with your  _ brother,  _ Harry.” Louis’ voice rises in pitch as he abandons his initial emotionless tone. “I’m not some random pull.”

“You aren’t,” Harry stresses. “That’s why I...I thought I was doing you a favor.”

Louis lets out one bark of laughter. “Because you’re...what? My therapist? My babysitter? I already have a mum, Harry, and  _ trust me, _ I don’t need another.”

“It was stupid. Some stupid self-sacrifice mechanism that I’m still trying to turn off. I told myself I was looking out for you, but...” Harry wishes he could see Louis’ face, to get an idea of whether he’s preparing to crack open the door or slam it shut. “I’ve missed you, okay? Every single day. And that scares me too.”

Louis is quiet for a few seconds, his breathing the only evidence that he hasn’t put the phone down and walked away.

“It really, really hurt. Being left like that,” he finally says. Harry squeezes his eyes shut.

His jealousy shamelessly tries to hurdle over that pain, but he resists the urge to bring up Étienne. As little as he understands why Louis is allowing his ex back into his life, even in small ways, he knows it’s not his right to ask.

“I know I can’t make up for it – not completely – but I want to...I’m calling to ask you to let me try. Just one chance, please. And if that’s not what you want, we can go back to normal. Be friends.”

Louis laughs again – this time it’s an amused snort.

“Friends. Wouldn’t that be an interesting experiment?”

It’s not exactly a no, so Harry holds on, standing motionless in the center of his flat and listening to Louis silently weigh his options.

“Fine,” he says at last. “How are you gonna make it up to me?”

*****

If Louis had been booked for the next evening, Harry’s singular set of plans would have been dashed. He’d spent a good hour combing event listings and tourist sites for unique London dates, searching for something that would feel specific to Louis.

It’s illuminating – and not in a way that gives him any pride – looking back on the few weeks they’d spent together. Aside from their dinner with Étienne (a Titanic-level disaster) and the couple of times Louis came in to eat at the bar when Harry was working, they hadn’t really gone  _ out- _ out. Louis had seemed perfectly content to stream movies at Harry’s flat or stroll around the city, but that was no excuse. Harry had been treating him like something temporary – or worse: somewhere buried deep, he’d reasoned that if he kept Louis away from the world, it would take him longer to notice that he was way out of Harry’s league.

Well, no more. If he’s so worried about being worthy of Louis, it’s about time he starts trying to earn him.

Tonight, that means the Electric Cinema in Portobello, which – for one night only – is playing  _ The Apartment _ , one of Louis’ favorite old films. One night over Vietnamese takeaway, he enthusiastically lectured Harry about all the ways in which it inspired  _ Jerry Maguire _ and how Cameron Crowe’s first choice to play Jerry’s mentor, Dicky Fox, was  _ his  _ mentor, director Billy Wilder. Jack Lemmon, obviously, had a more convincing everyman quality than Tom Cruise, Louis continued, though Renee Zellweger exhibited the same effortless star power as Shirley MacLaine.

So it seemed a little like fate when Harry found that there were tickets still available, and that some of them were for reservable, red velvet loveseats designed for couples. (The theater also had a select number of  _ beds  _ up for grabs, he saw on the website. But even if Louis did forgive him, that was most definitely a bridge too far.) They could have cocktails in the lobby before and, provided all went well, a dinner after – somewhere dark and tucked away on a side street.

Romance hasn’t historically been his thing – hence carrying on something like a relationship without one single, proper date – but Harry hopes he can wing it.

Those hopes dim slightly when Louis declines Harry’s offer to pick him up at his door, opting instead to meet him at the theater. He doesn’t begrudge Louis’ desire to preserve his space, especially considering that the last time Harry was at that flat, he was slipping out of bed at dawn, guilty and careful not to wake his host.

For now, that leaves Harry waiting on the sidewalk outside the venue, watching other couples and groups of friends pass through the doors with their tickets pulled up on their phones. 

Back in his old neighborhood, it wasn’t exactly the thing to formally ask a person out and then take them somewhere. You saw someone you fancied, your mates consulted with their mates, and – provided all was in order – you ended up snogging in the corner of some dingy party and going home smelling of cigarettes and stale beer.

Harry knows that Louis didn’t have much experience with the ritual either – not before Étienne, at least. But his peers did. It was happening all around him, and though he’d only mentioned it in passing a few times, it was evident to Harry that Louis was acutely aware of what he’d missed. He closed himself off to chase some idea of perfection, unknowingly perpetuating his mother’s conviction that she was too good for even their posh community. Just another way in which their contentious relationships with their own – very different – classes make Louis and Harry strangely aligned.

That doesn’t make him any less nervous at the moment. 

Harry checks his phone for the tenth time, making sure his brightness is set high for the scanners. When he looks back up, Louis is approaching with his head held high, his not-quite-smile in the shape of a checkmark – as always, the picture of tentative confidence. 

He looks great. Too great, if the way Harry’s esophagus seems to shrink is any indication. He lets his eyes rove briefly over Louis’ form, noticing the perfect fit of his slim black trousers and clocking the potential of the soft-looking jumper he has on – mostly black with a red, tan, and white stripe. (Some famous designer, Harry can’t recall the name.) He still has some road to travel, but Harry hopes that Louis will at least allow him a little cuddle during the film. After all, the theater encourages it. 

“Hey. You look...wow,” he says, the first few words coming out slightly hoarse.

Louis stands in front of him, pointedly keeping his arms at his sides.

Remembering himself, Harry awkwardly thrusts the single pink rose he’s holding towards Louis.

“Um, this is for you.”

Louis examines it, treating the flower first like it’s literally about to blow up in his face. But then his edges soften and a smile slowly spreads. Louis takes the rose from Harry, the tips of their fingers brushing briefly, then looks at him as though he’s seeing something new. 

“Thanks,” he says. “And you.” 

Harry pulls self-consciously at the navy sport coat he borrowed from his mate Liam. It’s a little roomy in the shoulders, but it doesn’t half suit him. 

Without thinking, he moves to offer Louis his arm then aborts, clearing his throat to cover it. 

“Shall we?” he asks, flexing his hand near his side and noting with relief that Louis seems to be more amused than offended by his misstep.

“Alright.”

Louis smiles again as Harry grabs the door handle and swings it out wide for him.

“We have time for a drink before the house opens,” Harry says when they pass into the outer bar. “I know this part doesn’t look like much, but all the reviews say the cocktails are good.”

“Okay, yeah.”

They weave through mismatched tables and chairs to find an empty spot. Harry pulls out a seat for Louis, which earns him a perplexed but pleased look, then leans over him, hands braced on the table.

“What do you want?”

Louis cranes his neck around Harry and squints up at the menu hanging over the bar. “Could I interest you in the ‘Negroni for two’?” he asks. It may as well have “pretty please” on the end of it.

Harry grins. A sofa for two, a cocktail for two...it’s almost as if they were a couple.

“Comin’ right up.”

After paying the bartender, he returns with two rocks glasses stacked and a mini cocktail shaker. Taking the seat next to Louis, he separates them, then carefully pours an equal amount of orange-red liquor into each.

Louis wraps his fingers around his drink after Harry pushes it over to him, then meets his gaze. 

“To…” With his glass in the air, Harry realizes he has no idea where he’s going with this. “I don’t know what we should drink to.”

“To communication,” Louis proposes, with an arch look.

“To communication,” Harry parrots grimly, willing to take the hit.

Still, conversation doesn’t come easily as they sip their first beverages. Harry holds back, looking to Louis to determine how he should play the evening. But Louis gives nothing away, restricting his responses to just a few words. They’ve only covered how each of them has filled the last few days – with a couple of exaggerations on either end, surely – when an usher announces that the doors are open for seating. Louis and Harry both down the remains of their negronis and follow the crowd through the swinging double doors.

The theater itself is even more classic than the photos Harry saw online. It’s a genuine, old fashioned movie house, with the screen behind a curtain and everything. Its seating is broken up into sections: regular, single seats at the back; loveseats – like the one he booked – in the middle; and a few beds in the front, all draped in plush garnet velvet.

Walking down an outer aisle, Louis brushes his hand against a bit of the elaborate molding on the walls, and Harry mentally pats himself on the back for getting it right for once.

But his anxiety increases as they near their seats. Harry hadn’t told Louis about the arrangements in advance, fearing that the intimacy of it would scare him off. He glances back at him when they pass the single seats, but his expression is unreadable.

“I think we’re...yep, we’re in here,” Harry says self-consciously, leading them into a row of sofas.

He keeps his eyes straight ahead until he finds the number on their tickets, then turns to face Louis.

“Is this alright?”

The loveseat is just big enough to comfortably accommodate two people without forcing them to be in each other’s laps. But it doesn’t allow for much space between them, the general idea being that you’d be sharing one with someone you wanted to be close to. 

Too late, Harry wonders if he should have made sure that the feeling was mutual.

Louis answers his question with a more loaded question: “You chose these?”

Harry nods, lips pressed together in a line.

Louis has no response, just lowers himself onto the loveseat and strokes the arm with his palm, watching the fibers move and looking close to pleased.

Smiling a little smugly to himself, Harry takes the seat next to him and settles back to get comfortable. He lets his thighs fall open, but not so wide as to touch Louis’. He tries to tell whether Louis is tucked into the corner of his side to keep his distance or just positioning himself to read the laminated menu that sits on the small table next to him.

“Not that I’m not enjoying it,” Louis starts, just as Harry is about to ask whether he wants to stick with cocktails or switch to wine. “But what is all this?”

“Just a film.”

“A  _ romantic  _ film.”

“Is it?” Harry grins. “Well isn’t that lucky?”

Louis hums, then returns his attention to the menu.

“This is so cozy,” he declares momentarily. “A perfect place to talk – not during, of course – but, you know, if someone had something to say to someone else...now would be a good time.” His eyes connect with Harry’s, and he’s suddenly submerged in their blue.

“Lou, I’m so sorry.” He said it on the phone, but of course Louis needs to hear it again. Is entitled to. “From the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry that I walked away from you.”

“I know,” Louis says simply. “I believe you.”

“Oh. So…” Harry studies his expression, but if there’s a cue, he’s missing it. “I did mention how fit you look tonight, didn’t I?”

“Yes, thank you,” Louis says formally. “Is there anything else you want to say? With the candles and the velvet…maybe something about where this is going?”

“Oh. I thought, maybe we could eat afterwards?” Harry frowns. “I don’t know the area well, but I found a couple of places…”

“No, silly,” Louis huffs. “I mean with us. What do you, Harry Styles, want for us?”

It’s a strange question. Harry can’t tell the future, could have never even foreseen that he’d be on a date with someone who thought him below his notice in school. Even if he tells Louis what he wants – what he sometimes lets himself think about – there’s no guarantee that it will come true. People come and they go. That’s just how it is.

And he doesn’t like to lie. Which is why Harry avoids making promises.

“I–I want to keep seeing you, obviously. That’s why I–”

“That’s all?” Louis cuts in, his tone suspiciously polite.

Harry scrubs his hand over his face. “I feel like I’m failing here. I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

“How do you feel about me, Harry? That’s it. That’s all I wanna know.”

Harry hesitates. It’s not that he doesn’t have a list of things he admires about Louis, only that he gets the sense that a trap door will open beneath him if he pays the wrong compliment.

“You’re smart,” he says finally, Louis’ eyes burning into him like a cold fire. “And beautiful. You’re funny, I can never tell what you’re going to do next. I like being with you and I hate that I made you feel like I didn’t.”

Louis folds his hands in his lap.

“So...you like me.”

_ Oh, no. _

“No. I mean  _ yes, _ obviously. Erm…”

“You brought me here after leaving me alone for two weeks to tell me that you  _ like  _ me?” Louis accuses.

“I didn’t. I was trying to show…”

“Do you love me, Harry?” Louis asks, point-blank. “Could you someday? Is that even some distant possibility for you?”

With each question, his voice gets louder. Without thinking, Harry glances over his shoulder to see if anyone seems to be listening.

Louis scoffs, then pushes himself to his feet, the rose that was in his lap falling pathetically to the floor.

“Where are you going?” Harry rises too.

“I have a big day tomorrow, actually,” Louis says, checking his phone. “Étienne’s come back into town to do another reading. This time, it’s something he wrote  _ for  _ me. About what I mean to him.”

Harry’s lungs empty, like he’s been punched in the stomach. “What?”

“His fans are really looking forward to it,” Louis sniffs. “He hasn’t let me see it yet; he wants to see my face when he reads it.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry laughs. “Isn’t this the guy–”

“Who loves me?” Louis challenges. “He certainly says it a lot. Has never stopped saying it, really.”

“And yet you couldn’t wait to get away from him!”

There are definitely eyes on them now, but Harry no longer cares.

“For  _ what,  _ Harry? What was I fighting so hard for, huh? I don’t have a job or a place of my own. I barely have a life. And here I am in one of the most romantic places in the city with the one person who makes all of that go away, and it’s horrible, because I’m in way deeper than he is. And I can’t do this. I can’t wait for you to admit to yourself that you feel something real for me.”

“Lou, please,” Harry reaches out to him, but stops short of catching his hand. “I...I have a lot of shit, and I’m still sorting through it. You have to give me time.”

“Like it was so easy for me. You can’t pull the Charles Dickens childhood card here, Harry. I grew up with the coldest monsters you’ll ever meet, but I’m not going to let them win. I actually want to live my life. And if that means getting hurt, so fucking be it.” 

With that, he stomps back into the aisle, whirling around just as Harry starts to take off after him.

He points a finger at him, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Do  _ not  _ follow me, Harry.”

And Harry doesn’t, only watches him race up the aisle, swiping his fingers across his cheeks.

****

_ “Leaving a box in your mailroom,”  _ Harry finishes texting with one hand as he slides into his rideshare, pushing said box into the middle seat.  _ “Nothing expensive but you should probably come down and get it as soon as you can.” _

His phone is already ringing by the time he fastens his seatbelt. He knew he should have waited until he was clear of their building.

“Hi,” he says into it, nodding at his driver in the rearview mirror.

“What box?” Niall demands. 

“Just some of Louis’ stuff. Things he left.”

“Well, that was fast.”

Harry swallows. Waking up this morning and encountering Louis’ contact solution in his bathroom wasn’t a pleasant experience. So after he used the toilet, he started gathering the bits of him strewn around his flat – a few books, some fancy food containers with snap-on lids, a jumper – and collected them in an old Amazon box. His only thought was that he had to get them out of his house as soon as possible, so he got dressed and sent for a car. 

“And you’re not gonna come up,” Niall continues.

“No, I don’t think I should.”

His brother sighs, long and loud. “So that’s it. You’re really giving up.”

“He doesn’t want to see me, Ni. He walked out on me last night. It’s over.”

“If you say so.”

“He’s back with his ex! He told me himself. They’re getting back together.”

“Just...do me a favor, yeah? Come up to the flat when you get here. Louis isn’t home; he went out to some gourmet food store for a demo. And Zayn’s not here either, so it’ll just be us.”

“Yeah, okay, fine,” Harry acquiesces, rubbing his eye. “Just for a minute.”

“Good. See you soon.”

Fifteen minutes later, he’s coming off of the elevator and carrying the box to Niall’s front door. He knows his brother wouldn’t ambush him; still, he’s apprehensive, just being where Louis lives. What he needs is a clean break, which will unfortunately complicate things for all of them – at least until Louis gets his own place, and that’s unlikely to happen anytime soon.

“I’ll take that,” Niall says, relieving Harry of the box and taking it in the direction of Louis’ room. “Go on, sit down.”

Harry stops at the fridge on the way to the living room, grabbing a black cherry seltzer for himself and a lime one for Niall. 

“Thanks,” Niall says when he returns, taking his can from its coaster and cracking it open.

“You’re almost out of that one.”

“That’s because you’re the only one who drinks the black cherry. It’s too sweet.”

Harry smiles to himself, but it vanishes quickly. He’s never been to their place when they haven’t been stocked up on it.

“Didn’t think I’d ever be giving you relationship advice,” Niall changes the subject after he takes a sip. “You remember when you first came to stay? You were such a stud, been almost all the way around the bases. And there I was, never even kissed anyone.”

“You’d already been in love with Zayn since you were eight years old,” Harry teases lightly. “That might’ve had something to do with it.”

“Yeah, well. Who knows when  _ that  _ would’ve happened if you hadn’t showed up and made me think I might be good enough for him. Or taught me how to French kiss.”

“Which we are  _ never  _ letting Mum find out about.”

“To the grave,” Niall promises, holding up three fingers. “You’re not my type anyway, even if you hadn’t become my brother.”

Harry shoves him in the chest, and Niall makes a big show of clutching his left pec.

“ _ Ow.  _ Get off me, ya brute.”

Harry rolls his eyes and huffs a laugh. Niall may have the most quote-unquote adult life of the two of them, but he also hasn’t changed at all.

“To be honest, until you started helping me with Zayn, I wasn’t even sure if you liked me or not.”

Harry’s laughter tapers off, his mouth frozen open in surprise.

“Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah, dude,” Niall chuckles. “You’re not exactly easy to read.”

“I liked you,” Harry protests. “I was a little disoriented, but I always liked you.”

“I know that now. I had to get used to you too.”

Harry frowns, thinking back to his first few days in the Horans’ intimidatingly large flat. They were kind to him immediately, but he’d been wise enough to know that he shouldn’t let himself get too comfortable. Playing video games with Niall, eating together as a family – it was only temporary. So Harry protected himself accordingly.

“You know, Zayn, he’s been reading this book about love languages,” Niall says thoughtfully, cutting into his thoughts. “It’s like, everybody has different needs when it comes to that stuff, how they like people to show they care about them. Your love language is being there for people. Standing up for them. That’s how you  _ receive  _ love, and also how you give it. And it makes sense, considering what it was like for you when you were young. But Louis, he grew up with all the stability you could ask for. He just didn’t get any affection.”

“He told you about last night.”

“Yeah, sure. He was only a wreck.”

“What did he say?”

“He thinks you don’t love him because you didn’t say it. But I know you, and I know that’s not true.”

Harry doesn’t correct him; he can feel his eyebrow twitch.

“It’s never been easy for you, I get that,” Niall goes on. “But you are the most loyal, selfless person I know. You’d go to the ends of the earth for the people you love. Are you really gonna let Louis slip through your fingers because you don’t like talking about your feelings?

“It’s not that I don’t want to…” Harry groans in frustration. “I don’t know how to explain it without sounding ridiculous.”

“You don’t have to. Not to me, anyway. Though you might want to talk to a professional sometime, untangle some of that stuff. Because, from what I can tell, Louis’ love language is a lot more verbal than yours.”

“I think it might be too late,” Harry says after a few quiet moments.

“How d’you figure that?” Niall makes a face. “Did he or did he not tell you exactly where he was going to be tonight?”

“I guess so, but–”

“He wants you to win, Harry. He’s rooting for you, can’t you see? All you’ve gotta do is what you do best:  _ show up. _ And then tell Louis what he needs to hear. If you don’t, you really will lose him. For good this time.”

Harry gets to his feet and starts to pace in front of the coffee table. Even if there  _ were  _ hope, he doesn’t know where to begin.

“Étienne’s a writer. A romance novelist, even if he is a hack. I can’t compete with that.”

“If it comes from you, trust me, Louis won’t care,” Niall says seriously. “Harry, look at me.”

Harry stops in his tracks and meets Niall’s eyes. He remembers that his brother has never lied to him, not even once.

“Six years ago, when I told you I fancied the most popular lad in school, you shrugged and told me to ask him out. It never even occurred to you what a completely mad suggestion that was.”

“And look how happy you’ve made him.”

“I’m just saying, stranger things than you and Louis have happened. And I don’t want to see either of you as miserable as you have been ever again. It’s not good for me.”

Harry scratches the back of his neck, his gaze darting to the digital clock on the microwave. 

“Did he happen to mention what time that reading starts?”

Niall grins. “Around six, I think.”

“I should probably go. Can I have my box back? And, uh...I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to him.”

Niall zips his fingers across his lips and then throws the key away. A few seconds later, he meets Harry back at the door with Louis’ stuff.

“I love you too, you know,” Harry says, looking up from tying his shoes. “I know I don’t say it enough.”

“Love you more, ya morose bastard,” Niall beams. “Now go get your man.”

*****

The book store’s event space is already packed by the time Harry gets there, the excitement over the bestselling author making another appearance so quickly palpable. The poster taped in the window upstairs promotes Étienne’s reading as the “exclusive debut of a new work,” giving no other details away. 

No other details were necessary, apparently.

Harry winds through the crowd of eager fans, mostly women, one hand nervously fingering the folded-up sheet of notebook paper in his pocket.

It’s more of an affair than last time. In one corner, there’s an employee pouring and handing out small, plastic cups of red and white wine. At a table next to her, patrons pick at a cheese plate and a selection of crackers. Classical music plays softly from overheard speakers, and it even seems like some of the guests have dressed up.

Any one of those realities would be bad enough to make him sweat, but all of them combined activate Harry’s instinct to get out immediately and go drown his sorrows in a pizza and a six-pack.

But he can’t stop thinking about what Niall said earlier today, how even he – probably the most important person in Harry’s life – doubted how Harry felt about him at one time. He was younger then, and everything was backwards, so Harry doesn’t blame himself for that. He does blame himself now, for letting issues he stubbornly never addressed ruin what he’d had with Louis. 

Using his height advantage, he sticks to the side of the room and searches the polite crush, many of whom are snapping selfies, sipping their wine, or holding their copies of  _ A Season for Peaches  _ against their chests, excitedly chatting about this mysterious new piece.

Finally, he spots him.

Louis is standing towards the front of the room, close to where a microphone and branded Waterstone’s podium are set up. He looks sophisticated and dapper in a  _ Mad Men  _ kind of way, wearing the hell out of a sleek, black suit and matching turtleneck, with a white pocket square completing the look. Étienne is next to him but facing another direction, simpering away to a small group of fans.

Harry watches Louis check the time on his phone display, then push out a heavy exhale. He looks up when Étienne deigns to acknowledge him, smiling weakly at him. 

But then Étienne’s arm disappears behind Louis, exactly like he’s placing his hand on the small of his back, and Louis doesn’t move away from the touch.

Again, Harry’s tempted to leave, and actually might have, if not for what happens next.

When Étienne returns to his conversation, Louis looks quickly towards the stairs – the ones Harry just walked down – and chews at his lip when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for.

Almost as though he were waiting for someone. 

That puts an end to Harry’s hesitation, and he makes his move before he can talk himself out of it.

“Excuse me, good evening,” he says into the microphone. “Is this thing on?”

A frazzled-looking woman with a clipboard rushes towards him. “Sir, I’m afraid you’re not allowed to touch that.”

“It’s okay,” Harry says, his nerves reaching such a fever pitch that they begin to approximate something like calm. “I’m the opening act.”

When he looks into the crowd, his eyes lock on Louis, who appears to be struggling not to laugh.

Harry hurriedly removes the paper from his pocket, unfolds it, and flattens it on the surface of the podium, the microphone catching the rustling. Trying to hide its deep creases and raw edge, he realizes he should have given some thought to stationary. 

A note for the future.

“Sir, I won’t ask you again,” the woman says in a stronger tone. A security guard has appeared just behind her, waiting to see if his services are required.

“This’ll just take a minute.”

“ _ Sir,  _ really.”

“It’s alright,” Étienne calls from the crowd. Harry, Louis, and the woman all stare at him in surprise. “I know this man. If he wants to speak, let him speak.”

Then Étienne glares at Harry, his smile friendly but eyes hard. Harry no longer wonders if Louis cleared up the lie he told about him, since his ex appears to be challenging Harry, daring him to embarrass himself.

Little does he know that’s precisely what Harry came here to do.

He nods at Étienne, then lets his eyes land on Louis again. 

The period of time between leaving Niall’s flat and showing up here was enough to convince Harry that he wasn’t destined to be a writer of any kind. As far as he can tell, it involves more cursing and balling up failed attempts than actually getting viable sentences on paper. But packing it all in wasn’t an option, not after he’d unlocked that door that had kept him from being as vulnerable as he needed to be with Louis. There was so much about him that Harry could never capture in words, even if he had six months instead of six hours to do it. Not the coy way he lets compliments slide off of his back or the supple skin of his inner thighs or his complex, maddening brain, which Harry finally realized he dearly loves trying to keep up with.

He’d still take an engineering course over an English one any day, but Harry tried his best. And whether it’s good or not (it’s really not), Louis deserves to hear it.

“Hi everyone,” he mumbles into the mic, ignoring the rest of the room and speaking directly to Louis. “‘m Harry, and I know you’re all here to see someone else, but I just have a quick poem to read. Um, this is for Louis.”

Smirking slightly, Louis manages to look both shocked and as though he just won a bet with himself. Étienne removes his hand from Louis’ body and draws it back towards his own.

Harry clears his throat.

“I’m not good with words, I know that it’s true.   
But this time I’ll try, at least for you.   
You shook up my world, I thought I was smart,   
But you made me realize I was guarding my heart.   
Though I thought we were different, we fit like a glove   
And though it’s too late to tell you, I am in love.”

For a few tense seconds, Harry is dropped into his own nightmare. The room is deadly silent, bewildered by his basic presence, along with the rudimentary poem. No one claps, no one coughs. Étienne mockingly raises a glass to him, his smile greasy and self-satisfied. 

But he doesn’t really care about any of it. Louis’ reaction is the only one that matters to him.

He stands rooted to the same spot, his expression twisting like he’s about to cry, though Harry can’t tell if it’s from humiliation or something else.

“Um, that’s all,” Harry addresses the whole room, desperate to get out of the spotlight. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”

He crushes the paper in his fist as he walks away from the podium, so intent on escaping that he doesn’t see Louis approach, noticing only when his hand closes over Harry’s.

“Please,” Louis whispers. “Can I keep it?”

Harry opens his fingers, vaguely registering Étienne shooting daggers at him from over Louis’ shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he shakes his head. “I wish it were better.”

He lets Louis take the poem from his grip and read back over it again, a single tear sliding down his cheek as he reaches the bottom of the page.

“Harry, this is the most beautiful poem I’ve ever heard,” he says resolutely.

“Yeah?”

“Cross my heart.”

“I wrote it for you,” Harry says unnecessarily. “And I meant it. I mean it.”

“ Excusez-moi,” Étienne says loudly, squeezing in between them. “Thank you ‘arry, for the, uh, how do you say? Warm-up act. Very interesting technique, but it is time for the real show.  Ma pêche, come.” He sweeps his arm out towards the podium. Louis follows it blankly with his eyes.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Mon amour, I came all the way here to read for you,” Étienne says through his teeth. “You are embarrassing me.”

“Then I’ll leave,” Louis shrugs. “You’ll still have all your adoring fans. And you and I both know that’s why you’re  _ really _ here.”

Ignoring his continued objections, Louis reaches across Étienne and takes Harry’s hand, effectively boxing him out.

“I love you too,” he whispers, stroking Harry’s thumb. “A lot, actually.”

“There are so many more things I want to tell you…” Harry looks over Louis’ shoulder and sees at least three phones filming them. “But maybe without the audience? Or the...rhyming.”

“Probably, yeah,” Louis smiles, then tugs on his fingers.

Befuddled guests make way for them as they head towards the stairs, grinning widely at each other. 

“I think that’s Peaches,” one of Étienne’s fans hisses when Harry and Louis pass, bringing them to a brief stop.

Linking his arm through Harry’s, Louis kindly corrects her.

“Not anymore, love.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for making it to the end!! If you're so moved, please leave kudos and/or a comment. I'd love to hear from you. And here's [the Tumblr post](https://a-brighter-yellow.tumblr.com/post/616555376748494848/what-youre-signing-on-for-by-abrighteryellow)!


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